Especially There
by Feste the Fool
Summary: My dumping grounds for Squire's Tales oneshots. The latest up: Terence and Eileen enjoy an outing in the woods, in the middle of the night.
1. Especially There

Darkness there was, always darkness. A blade flying through the air, twisting in and out of the shadows. He ran—he always ran—and the dagger always caught up with him. It jabbed and sliced at his throat. He dodged as best he could as the scenery around him began to shift.

There was the laughter, right on time. Low-pitched, almost seductive laughter that sounded both very mad and very sane at once. It could be a woman laughing—heavens knew there was a woman here, somewhere—but it could have been a man. The dagger came at him again. He threw himself to the ground to avoid the desperate swipe and realized for the first time that it was not free-wheeling, but being carefully controlled by someone with long, thin fingers and broad, pale palms. Strangler's hands, although not the ones you usually saw when someone said the phrase.

And the laughter again. Always the laughter.

Then came the face, always half-concealed by something. It could have been a woman's face—lovely in its features but somehow perverse, perhaps warped by some unnatural emotion—or a man's—handsome to the point of striking, slightly feminine, but more natural, stronger. He was in a forest now, running through trees to avoid whoever had their absurdly beautiful strangler's hands on that cursed dagger. The face was concealed by trees and leaves, sometimes smiling in kindness, sometimes smiling with an evil glint in the one visible eye, sometimes mangled with rage.

He was running—he didn't know where to, and he didn't have much of an idea of what from. He was alone in this horrific, terrifying place of mist and half-light, and he had never felt more wretched in solitude. As if his surroundings had read his thoughts, the trees turned into a bustling town full of demon-eyed citizens all desperate to hold him down for the dagger to cut open. He reached down to his side for his sword. It was gone—he was defenseless as well, then. There was nothing left to do but keep shouldering through. Just when he thought it might be less of a hassle to let the dagger have him, the townspeople faded into the haze and the village became an empty field. The laughter echoed again, rattling him into running ever faster despite the painful stitch in his chest. His own breath sounded ragged in his ears. He was wearing out. The blade was coming closer.

And then, something new.

"_Give up," _whispered a malicious voice that he thought he recognized from some memory just out of reach. "_Why continue with your pathetic leadership and chivalry? Just give up and let me take England for myself. You know you will fail. All heroes die." _

A thousand other voices joined it, all sounding the same, all bouncing around the field, surrounding him. The dagger had vanished. Unable to run any longer, he fell to his knees, pulling his hands to his ears. He tried to speak—or perhaps to scream—but his throat was full of cotton and he could not form the words, nor catch his breath. Again, he heard the laughter.

"_Even now, you are weak. When it matters, when you are facing me. You are no king. You shame the word. Look at you, panting on the ground. How do you expect to rule a country when you can't even talk to a voice in your head?" _

It was growing darker, the field fading once more, going black. Soon there would be nothing but that haunting, paralyzing voice that turned his heart cold with panic and his thoughts thick with fear.

"_Lift your feet when you walk, O king,"_ said the voice, dripping with sarcasm, laughing with the words. "_Have a care when you tread the ground. Mind your feet; watch where you step. We wouldn't want you tripping on your path, now, would we? Keep in mind, O king. It is a __long__ walk from Badon Hill." _

And the laughing again, rising, screeching, accented by the darkness, multiplied somehow, all around him, battering him, buffeting him, assaulting his sense, breaking his ears—

And then a different voice, a young man's voice, strong and full of righteous fury, yet comforting all the same—and familiar, somehow, just as familiar as the voice and face of the thing in the mist.

"BEGONE!"

A single word, nothing more, and the darker voice vanished with a whoosh of air, and the darkness turned into a blinding, scouring white light—

And he sat bolt-upright in his bed with a shiver and a gasp, drenched in sweat, gasping for air that could not fill his lungs quickly enough. His bedchamber was darker than it should have been, and he could only just feel his wife's warm body next to his. He thought he would have awakened her with his deadly night-struggle, that she would be sitting by him, urging him to wake, telling him it was only a dream, comforting him as only she could. She was not. She slept on as though the night were more peaceful than most. Yet there was someone standing over him—he could feel just the ghost of a touch as a slender finger was retracted from his temple.

Of all the faces he expected to see, the face of his nephew's enigmatic young squire was _not_ among them.

Their eyes locked, something the young man was obviously not expecting either. They stared at each other for a moment. The squire's lips twitched as if repressing a smile. In a slow, smooth motion, the squire raised an eyebrow at the king, as if daring him to say a word about this night, to even believe that he was there. Then he took a single step backward and all but vanished into the shadows.

The room was a little brighter suddenly, glowing with moonlight that was not there just a moment ago. The king lowered himself back into bed, exhausted by his terrors, and was asleep again—almost too quickly. Somehow he knew he would not have that particular recurring dream again.

And when Arthur rose that morning, he could not be sure whether the squire had really been in his rooms, or whether that had been part of the dream, too.

* * *

><p><em>Gawain knelt and said, "Our service is always yours, sire." <em>

_"Even in my dreams?" Arthur asked. _

_"Especially there, O king," Terence murmured, bowing. (The Squire's Tale, p. 209)_

* * *

><p><strong>Disclaimer: Yeah, I'm still not a man, so there's no way I could be Gerald Morris.<strong>

**Note: At the moment, this is a one-shot. It will (probably) not have a second chapter, but if I am (shamefully, I know) so inclined, this might become my dumping ground for Squire's Tales one-shots. **_  
><em>


	2. Splintered Wood

**WARNING! SPOILERS FOR THE LEGEND OF THE KING!**

* * *

><p>Guinevere, Queen of England, was in Camelot, but at the moment would have been rather difficult to locate. She could not be found in the throne room, council room, or her bedchambers. She could not be found wandering around the gardens, or the kitchens, or the training fields. Nor was she with her ladies in waiting, or visiting a friend, or with her kingly husband. This was because Queen Guinevere was, in fact, running down a long stretch of hallway with her skirts hiked up past her knees, darting through the first open door she could find, shutting and bolting that door, and pulling a chair up under the handle.<p>

Sounds of war echoed through the thick stone walls as she rested her back against the other side of the door with her eyes tightly closed. She could hear screaming. Muffling a sob with the back of her hand, she slid along the length of the door until she was on her knees on the floor. She had tried to get everyone out of the castle, really she had. But she was only one woman, and one not in very good standing with much of the rest of Camelot right now. When word came that the Horsemen were just outside the walls, her subjects panicked and fled.

And now those walls were failing, and even the queen had no choice but to flea and hide.

"Majesty?"

Guinevere nearly jumped out of her skin. Within an instant she was crouching in a poor reflection of a fighter's stance, one hand curled around the thin dagger she had kept tucked in her bodice ever since Arthur had left for war. She looked around the room, eyes wild with fear, but found only another frightened woman glad in a simple gown.

"Easy, Majesty," the woman said as if talking to a spooked horse rather than her queen, throwing up her hands in a sign of peace. "Easy. You don't need that just yet."

"Lady Eileen, you startled me," she said, putting away the dagger and breathing heavily. She moved next to the door, so as to be behind it if it should open; it was the most protection that a room with a single table and a handful of chairs could provide.

The redhead chuckled. "That much is clear. And you can just call me Eileen. I think, under the circumstances, we can forgo the formality of titles, wouldn't you say?"

That got a nervous, watery smile from the distraught ruler. "I suppose you're right. It's Gwen, then, to you. Not Majesty. What exactly are you doing in here? This isn't your room."

"It isn't yours either. Some sort of smaller council chamber, I think. Terence and I met here a few times." Eileen's smile vanished at the sound of the Horsemen's siege engines battering the walls once more. "But you shouldn't be here, Majesty—Gwen. You should be well outside the city by now."

Guinevere shrugged. "I know I haven't always been a very impressive queen…but I couldn't leave my people, not now." Another loud crash, and she whimpered softly. "Great lot of good I'm doing, too, huh?"

Eileen shot her a curious look and eased to the tiny window. They were getting close to breaking through now, but something told her the queen did not need to know that. "Now, now, Gwen. You did quite well, all things considered. It isn't your fault if you just never…clicked into position, you know? You were a good queen."

She heard a weak chuckle, but didn't turn from the window. "Any girl worth half of me could have done better than I, Eileen. I paid more attention to fashions that to ruling. I ignored affairs of the court for affairs of my own. I betrayed my king, in many of the worst possible ways."

Another loud bash and the knights were through. Eileen turned sharply back to the queen and moved away from the window—she had seen her fair share of carnage and had no wish to see more. "Hush, Gwen. You were a child, and you were given far too much responsibility. It frightened you. It made you do foolish things."

"That is no excuse." Another chuckle, far darker than the one before, and Eileen could see tears coursing steadily and silently down Guinevere's cheeks. "I suppose it is only fitting that I die now at the hands of a man I helped create. If I hadn't been disloyal, Morgause never would have had an opening…"

Eileen marched to Guinevere's side, knelt, and took her monarch into her arms, letting the queen's head fall on her shoulder. "Gwen, Gwen, it isn't your fault. Nothing that happened is your fault. It isn't anyone's fault. If you had behaved differently, Morgause would have found another way. If Arthur had done different things, she would have found another way. That's what she does, Gwen, she finds chinks in the armor. And where there aren't chinks—"

"—she makes them herself, I know," Guinevere said. She remained where she was though, leaning into Eileen's arms and crying into her shoulder. It had been a long time since she had cried, and longer still since she'd had someone to comfort her like this. "But Mordred—"

"—Is here, is coming, and would still have been born somehow," Eileen said, trying to drown out the screams floating up from the courtyard. "And in any case, you're forgetting something very important: Mordred. Mordred himself, Gwen. He's only human—"

"Not all human," the queen was quick to point out.

At that, Eileen grinned. "Want to know a secret? My Terence is _less_ _human_ than Mordred could ever hope to be_." _

Guinevere's eyes snapped wide open. "What? Really?"

"Yes. His mother was human, but his father is pure faery. Terence turned out beautifully, wouldn't you say? So Mordred could still change his mind about all this. It may end here for us, but there's still hope for Arthur."

"Hope?" She scoffed, but it came out more like a broken sob. "What hope? Mordred is Morgause's son—"

"I know," Eileen countered. "But you've all seemed to have forgotten that to make a baby it takes a woman _and _a man." She smiled, though it didn't quite meet her eyes, and stroked Guinevere's hair. "He's Morgause's son, Gwen, but he's _Arthur's _son, too. If Morgause is all hate and evil, Arthur is, even at his worst, is all love and good. He's _Arthur's_ son, too, Gwen. There must be goodness in him somewhere."

The screams and sounds of crazed laughter were coming closer now, and Guinevere was weeping openly. The doorknob began to rattle, then the whole door began to shake. Eileen's smile wilted entirely and she clung ever tighter to the queen. "Somewhere," she muttered into the queen's ear, sounding half as though she were trying to convince herself. "There _must _be goodness in him, somewhere…"

The doors burst open.

"_The soldiers and guards who resisted King Mordred's rule were, naturally, executed as traitors. As for the ladies and servants, I really couldn't say. Some of them, regrettably, were killed. A pity, that. I suppose some might have escaped; we didn't count. The rest are safely with Mordred and his troops." Mador smiled blandly. _

_There was a sick silence in the camp. Terence stared at the splintered wood, but saw only the face of his wife Eileen, who was one of Guinevere's ladies. —The Legend of the King, p._ 234

* * *

><p><strong>So apparently the books are providing ample prompts themselves. For full blown tragedy. And really, this could be worse. I *did* have a two paragraph extension in Eileen died bloody. This at least provides hope of her still being alive. <strong>


	3. No One's Story

**WARNINGS**

**This is another excerpt-inspired story, but this one is weird. And by weird, I mean REALLY weird. Very stream-of-consciousness, very...Ever read _The Great Good Thing_ or _Avalon High?_ Because if you cross _The Great Good Thing _with _Avalon High_ you might come close to how bizarre this story is. If you don't get it at all, tell me in a review and I'll try to explain the things that pop out of my head. **

**Besides that, can't think of any spoilers. Unless you are completely unfamilar with both The Squire's Tales and Arthurian legendry, everything mentioned is common knowledge. Sort of. A couple of minor inside jokes, but nothing big and spoiler-y. **

* * *

><p>Every generation a new plot, though with Morgause's death, it seemed more like the old plans on a loop. Good Gog, he was tired. Exhausted beyond comprehension and at once brimming with the energy of being young again; the combination alone was enough to wear anyone out. A thousand years come and gone and he still wasn't used to it.<p>

So many names running through his head and he was never really sure which one he was. Theodore, Thomas, Teddy, Ty, TJ, Darrin, Dan, Dylan, and once, bizarrely, Jake. Now he was Toby. And somewhere, deep down, he was Terence. Always Terence. The closer you had been to the center, the more you remembered with every incarnation. Terence _had been_ the center, so Toby remembered everything. Not all the time, but the memories were always close. They were always popping up when he least expected it, but they were dreamlike, fuzzy, blurred. Sometimes he was Terence, and in a way, he was. Sometimes it felt more like Terence wasn't him, but was trapped within him. And in a way, he was. Terence whispered to him when it felt like that, although every once in a while it felt more like begging. _Please understand. Please find Morgause in time. Please don't let Mordred fool you. Please listen to me. Please, let me take over for five minutes and figure this out. _He worried so much, and at the same time, not at all.

People always remarked on Toby's eyes when they first met him, although they didn't always know what it was that drew them into his eyes. Toby did know. They weren't _his _eyes—in this life, and all the lives past, _he had no_ eyes. They were Terence's eyes every time, looking out at a world that never knew quite what to make of the man who looked so old even when he was so young. Toby, after all, was just eighteen now, and everything was just beginning.

There was no such thing as "the look" now—the gates, once closed, remained so forever. But those of them who had History, as the last Sarah had put it, could almost always recognize each other. At least, those who could remember. Like Gawain—Gavin, now, Toby reminded Terence as he sketched his guardian in the margins of his math homework. Gavin, who remembered a lot, but not in the same way that Toby did. Gavin, who often got a far away look in his eye and sometimes called him Terence on accident and wonder why it felt more natural. It was foster care that bound them together now, not a squire's service, but the ages old friendship had not suffered any for it. And the looks that people gave them, when Gavin slipped up and called him Terence in public and he answered automatically with a scathing comment and a gentle "milord," slipping easily back into the habit of centuries ago! The "milord"s were sweet on Toby's tongue: they belonged solely to Gawain and Terence, and the two were _so close_ to the surface whenever the word was uttered. Strange, small things sent those with History and Memory spinning back into the past, and "milord" was one of the strongest. Toby's vision went blurry when he said it, and the tile floors become flagstones and the papered wall became stone walls covered in bright tapestries.

Gavin was getting married in two weeks. To Laura, Toby's half-sister who had no Memory, for Lorie was still behind the door.

They were teachers this time, instead of knights, which made it very odd for Toby to go to school. The work was hard enough without an ancient squire whispering stories about how the Home Economics teacher used to mince around in tights with bells on his shoes, or how Gavin's brother Jeff who taught Spanish used to wet the bed. And then there was the principal. Arthur, of course. Arthur Prendergast. That was one of the oddest things of all, knowing that he, Toby McGuire, American high school senior, would lay down his life for his principal at a moment's notice, just because a voice in his head had once loved an English king. Funny how his name never changed over the years. And Arthur and his wife Ann had _no_ Memory, because the _real _Arthur was still Somewhere Sleeping, and part of Guinevere's penance was the relearning of all her lessons age after age.

Arthur and Ann and everyone would be at Gavin and Laura's wedding—the events were never _identical,_ and there were no real secrets anymore.

Morgause didn't always remember. She was more ruthless, more dangerous when she did. Toby had faced her once, in this lifetime, three years ago, and he was lucky. This time she remembered nothing. She used words more than weapons in recent days, although it was not unheard of for her to pick up a gun or knife. She still sought to depose Arthur, to ruin him, whatever his reincarnation. When she remembered, she looked for the resting place of the _real_ Arthur on top of that. Fewer people died when Morgause remembered nothing. When their time was up their past lives simply grew quiet, retreating back to the Avalon of their dreams for rest before the next generation's plans. When she did remember, she tended to cause minor wars. Sometimes the story played out more literal and people were murdered. Sometimes their deaths were accidents—car crashes, cancers, household incidents gone wrong, but always at around the same place in the story timeline where the Original Men had died.

Toby solved a couple more math problems, but his mind wasn't really in his homework. The school day was almost over and Terence was more agitated than usual. Something was going to happen soon, or was supposed to happen and hadn't yet, or something like it; Toby couldn't be sure. He knew Mr. Jones was watching him, and he also knew Mr. Jones wouldn't mind if he left half an hour before school ended. Barry Jones had once been Bedivere, and though he hardly ever remembered anything, his eyes were more open than most.

Toby never knew his parents. In this life, or any of the others. Sometimes he wondered if he'd ever even had parents or if he just appeared at whichever Trevisant's door when his time came. He remembered Ganscotter through Terence, and the memories sufficed, most of the time. The faery lord himself was still behind the gates with Piers and Ariel and Nimue and the rest. That was always strange, when the one in place of someone behind the gates showed up. It always felt…distant. Like you knew them through pictures or stories, and when you met them in real life they were nothing like what you thought. This life's Nimue was called Hannah, for instance. She had no History, no Memory, no idea she was a part of something greater. She was just an actor filling a role, without having any idea that she was acting.

A doodle of Hannah and Mr. Jones joined the rough picture of Gavin on the sides of Toby's paper. Then Laura, then Arthur and Ann, then Ann's "best friend" Leo. Leo was a good man, or at least, he would be. Someday. The Lancelots always were. They remembered too, but only certain things at certain times. Never the whole picture. The Dinadans saw everything differently—something to do with being connected to Elysium rather than Avalon, Terence suspected. Toby didn't mind; Adam was fun and he _did_ remember, even if it was only all in song. Next to be drawn came Travis, the old man who had cared for him before the Alzheimer's made it impossible. Then Arthur's brother (by blood, this time) and vice principal, Cody Prendergast, and his girlfriend Sal. She wasn't Connoire—it wasn't time for Connoire to come yet—but Terence suspected she had once been Sophie the kitchen maid.

He was half way through a sketch of Gavin's favorite brother Harry when he realized his drawings were crawling into his math problems. All at once his head started pounding; it was too much. He stood, quickly enough to make his desk nearly tip over (His best friend Phil sent him a half-worried, half-"what-the-heck" look as he bent contortedly over his own desk; Terence never appreciated the irony of making Plogrun a tall man who wished he was shorter) and marched to the front of the room. "Mr. Jones, I'm sorry," he muttered to the tile floor, not able to look the teacher in the eyes and see parts of Bedivere looking back. "But can I just…go?"

"Are you all right, Toby?" said the almost-familiar voice, making him ache a little inside.

"Yeah, I'm…I don't know. Can I just leave?"

There was a small silence. He could feel the gaze of not only the teacher, but of the rest of the class too, their eyes boring into his back. Finally, Mr. Jones relented. "All right, go ahead. But I'm going to talk to Gavin about this later." Later meant at Gavin's house that evening. The Round Table within the Round Table—or teacher's lounge, this time.

Toby didn't answer, just went back to his seat, shoved his books and homework into his backpack, and practically ran out the door.

He could drive, but Gavin would need his car later. Besides, the sleek black car was testy and rarely started when anyone but Gavin turned the keys. He could walk home, but he didn't want to go home just yet. Instead he headed to the courtyard after he checked himself out of the building. He needed space, a way to clear his head. Usually he went to the woods near Gavin's house. The school's landscaped, peaceful courtyard was almost as good. He leaned against the cool brick wall of the school, head bent, breathing long, forced breaths. He could practically feel the ancient squire pacing around his mind, making him dizzy.

What would it be like to be normal, just for a minute? No king to protect, no voices in his head, no thousand years of past lives, no destiny mandated from a fairy now gone. Just himself and his schoolwork and his own ambitions for the future. He longed for the liberty of feeling irresponsible, just for that one minute—

_Look to your left,_ said Terence, sounding in agony. _Your left, please!_

—and so he did.

Arthur was coming out of the school now with a mean-looking man and a teenaged girl with long red hair. His heart nearly stopped, and the squire in his head was _singing_ in excitement (note: Dinadan he was _not_). They were close, close enough to see her freckles. It was only a matter of time before Arthur noticed him—

"McGuire," said Arthur at last, his voice kind but firm. "What are you doing out here?" Toby opened his mouth to speak, but the principal cut him off. "Never mind, I'll talk to Gavin later. Mr. Wirral, why don't we let Mr. McGuire here show your niece around the school why we put her into the school's computers?"

"That'll be fine, I guess," Mr. Wirral grunted, giving the girl a gentle push.

Not that she needed it. She had seen Toby at the same time Arthur had and now couldn't tear her gaze away. The two adults moved back inside the building. He stood, unable to move, a goofy little grin stuck to his face, while she jogged toward him. She stopped just _inches_ away.

"Terence," the girl said, breathless, grinning from ear to ear.

"Eileen," Toby answered, his own smile broadening in spite of himself.

There was a moment of silence, so thick and filled with apprehension you could taste the air. Then, as if they could not contain themselves a moment longer, they lunged forward and kissed, long and passionate. It wasn't for them; Terence and Eileen hadn't seen each other in decades, after all, and a love like that, once formed, never fades with time. After a minute they broke apart and laughed, both feeling much better now that the Ancients in their heads were satisfied and nervous at the same time. They were perfect strangers, but they already knew they'd be married within sixteen years. A harrowing, thrilling, terrifying thought, to know who you'll marry before you ever meet.

"Uh, I'm Toby, by the way," Toby finally said, holding out his hand.

She took it, not shaking, just holding it in her own, like an old friend rather than a new acquaintance. "Beth. I'm Beth. Sort of. Mostly."

Toby laughed again and dropped their hands between them without releasing Beth's. "Come on, Beth. I'll show you around town. It'll give us a chance to get to know each other."

She didn't answer, only smiled wider and let him lead her down the sidewalk.

Every generation a new plot, recycled or not; Arthur's story wasn't over yet. Neither was Terence's. And maybe, Toby thought as he squeezed Elieen's—Beth's—warm hand and the weariness faded away, maybe it wasn't such a bad thing.

* * *

><p>"<em>No one's story is over yet," Terence said quietly, and the first cool rays of sun began to filter through the woods where they walked. The Savage Damsel and the Dwarf, p. 207. <em>


	4. The Damsel, the Duke, and the Knight

**To you wonderful people who liked the last crazy chapter enough to ask for a sequel, I have three words for you: "….D'oh, I dunno!" I'm quite pleased that you enjoyed it so, and I'm glad it gives me a chance to do different things with these stories (this, for instance, started out as just a descriptive exercise for me). I'll think about it, but it's not something that occurred to me the whole month I was sitting on that particular egg. In any case, thanks! This one is not a book prompt, and has a slight but obvious titular reference to a hilarious Squire's Tales story located conviently two clicks on your back button away. **

**WARNINGS!  
>If you have not read my story "Times Did And One Did Not," particularly chapter four on Gaheris, this might not make sense. Basically, Terence was mysteriously "away" from court when Gawain decided on a family visit and got sick on the way to Orkney. Other than that, no real spoilers; just some speculation over the duties of the Duke of Avalon.<strong>

**TIMING NOTICE!  
>In <strong>_**The Lioness and her Knight**_**, Luneta says Terence had been Gawain's squire for nearly twenty years (not counting, I assume, the seven lost years). I subtracted Luneta's sixteen years (she was the same age as Lynet in her book) from that to get four, and we know Terence had been Gawain's squire for about three years in **_**The Squire, his Knight, and his Lady**_**. Therefore, I am assuming that **_**The Savage Damsel and the Dwarf**_** happened very shortly after **_**The Squire, his Knight and his Lady,**_** and that Luneta was born within a year of their marriage, placing this story about a year and a half after Terence was named Duke of Avalon. Figuring out that took just about as much time and energy as trying to create an in-depth Pendragon family tree. Talk about some convoluted math!**

It was a familiar voice that at last coaxed Sir Gawain into opening his eyes, a familiar voice he had not heard in nearly six weeks. A voice that made every tense muscle in his body relax. A rather…peevish voice, if he was to be completely honest, a voice that sounded even more exhausted than he felt right now.

"…and besides that, the idiot should have never tried to leave Camelot without me. I mean, did he even _look_ at the sky when he started off? Any _lack-wit_ could have seen the storms coming up, never mind a Round Table knight with faery blood. And what did he do, anyway, sleep in the rain? Couldn't wait another moment, I'm guessing, left as soon as he got word of the baby's birth with not so much as a note left for me about where he was going or when he'd be back. Oh, no. What am I supposed to do, pop out of the ground wherever he happened to be camping? I'm not his _wife,_ I can't keep track of his every movement. Speaking of his Lorie, when she told me she lost him half-way to Orkney, she was in _tears,_ and neither I _nor_ Father could console her—she's going to be a righteous terror when he gets better, and who's going to get the brunt of it? _Me,_ and whatever other messenger she can scrounge up—and I had to go charging back to England in the _middle _of a hearing—I'm going to be the laughing stock of the whole faery _world_, the Duke who has to chase after human knights like a puppy gone astray—"

"_Terence,_" said a much quieter, much amused, much more female voice. "First of all, you're rambling. Second of all, watch what you're saying: Gary is _right there,_ and I'm not certain he's completely asleep yet. Third of all, did you notice your master _waking up_ in the midst of all your very important grumbling?"

If he wasn't so tired, Gawain would have smiled as hands immediately came to rest on his forehead and arm. He cracked his eyes open another fraction of an inch—not enough to truly see anything just yet, but well enough to let anyone watching know he was awake.

"Hello, Gawain," said Lynet's voice, still soft but full of cheer. "It's good to see those nice eyes of yours again—or at least, it will be when you open them all away. Just a bit more, if you please?"

He tried, really he did, but decided it was too much of an effort. He made a sort of grunt and let them flicker closed again. A very weary sigh sounded somewhere above the hands still lingering on his sweat-soaked skin. "Sir Gawain. Open. Your. Eyes." Barked a voice that, after a year and a half, Gawain recognized as the voice of the Knight of the Island, His Grace Duke Terence, Son of Ganscotter. (It was a very different voice than _Squire_ Terence's…)

He also remembered, a bare split second after the order was given, that his faery blood made him His Grace's subject, and when His Grace was in _that_ sort of mood, it was best if one did as His Grace commanded. His eyes snapped open. His vision was hazy and he was glad the lights had been dimmed to accommodate the knight snoring on the floor beside his bed. After the small dizzy spell had ended, the faces of Lady Lynet (tired and a little triumphant over her patient's recovery) and Terence (with great purple bags under his eyes) swam into view.

"That's better," Terence muttered, leaning back but not moving his hands.

"That's uncalled for, Your Grace," Lynet answered, shooting a dark look his way before peering into Gawain's eyes. "He could have taken his time."

"His and mine. I'm not in the mood just now, Lady Lynet."

The next look she gave him was a dirty _glare,_ and Gawain's lips did twitch in spite of himself. "He's not warm, and his eyes are clear. I think the fever's gone for good this time. He'll want water."

Now that she mentioned it, he was thirsty.

Before he could even finish the thought, Terence's hands were gone and a goblet was being pressed to his mouth. Cool water brushed against his chapped lips and he opened them at once, drinking greedily.

"Small sips, if you don't mind," said His Grace. "Although if you did throw up on me, I shouldn't be surprised. It's been that sort of week."

He wasn't sure whether he wanted to chuckle or cry. In the end he settled for another drink.

When Gawain had emptied the goblet, Terence set it aside. "More in a minute. You need to eat. Can you sit up, if I help you?" Gawain grunted a yes, then realized that a grunt might as well be a no. Terence must have known what he meant, or just wanted him to sit up regardless of what Gawain wanted, because his hands were behind Gawain's back now, easing him against the bed's backboard. Terence was still using his Duke voice, and warning signs were dancing around in Gawain's head. Something was wrong. What was wrong?

"What's that line in the middle of his forehead, Your Grace?" Lynet asked, reaching forward to touch the spot. Gawain relaxed again. He hadn't realized he was even bunching those muscles.

Terence glanced from Gawain's forehead to his face with just a trace of its usual fondness. "It means he's worried, the fool. _I_, worry _him, _while he's traipsing over England in the middle of the worst rainy season we've seen in a generation, chasing after a niece too young to even recognize his _existence_. You, Sir Gawain, are a _domnoddy,_ and I've half a mind not to speak to you."

It was still the Duke voice, but it was informal and laced with a distress that bordered an old sort of panic. Gawain remembered what Terence had been ranting about as he awoke…_when she told me she lost him…_and realized that the Avalonian family must have been very, very worried indeed. He grunted again in an effort to clear his throat, then rasped in a voice so weak it alarmed him, "Would you like me to apologize, my lord duke?"

Terence scoffed, his hand falling back onto Gawain's arm. "…I'm trying to decide between _yes, you idiot,_ and _no, you can't help being an idiot._ Which do you prefer?"

It was still his Duke voice, but that didn't stop Lynet from slapping him on the back of the head before she shoved a bowl of broth and a spoon into his free hand. "Don't be horrible. This is the first time he's been awake in two weeks."

_Two weeks?_ This time he could feel the crease reappearing in his forehead. The last thing he remembered was Lynet coming in to see him for the first time, a day after his arrival in Orkney, and he _barely _remembered that. Had he really not been lucid for _two weeks?_ He opened his mouth to ask that very question and instead got a spoonful of broth. He shot Terence the most annoyed look he could manage and swallowed.

"Very good, Milord. Now open up again." Gawain obeyed. Still the duke voice, but the reappearance of "milord" was a good sign, no matter how much Gawain disliked the word. "Did you have to use the cordial?" Terence asked while Gawain swallowed another spoonful of broth.

Lynet shook her head. "He made it through without it, although I was afraid I was going to have to use it at times. Gary was beside himself, poor dear. It's a good thing I found Luneta a nursemaid when I did. Poor infant is probably feeling quite neglected."

He hadn't even got to see little Luneta before the fever struck him down. One more thing to look forward too, he supposed.

He studied his poor squire while slowly demolishing the bowl of broth. Terence's skin was an odd, unhealthy color and the bags under his clouded eyes were even larger than he thought. Lynet looked drained from tending to him for a fortnight, but Terence looked plain _sick._ Something twisted in the pit of his stomach and he had a feeling it wasn't the broth.

The bowl was nearly empty when he turned his head away from the spoon. "Water," he said, voice stronger. Terence soon held the goblet to his face again; this time Gawain helped him hold it. He drank several mouthfuls and grinned dolefully. "You look horrible."

It was _his _turn to be on the receiving end of one of Lynet's glares as Terence split into a peal of near-hysteric laughter. "I'll…let that one slide…because you haven't…looked in a mirror lately," he gasped through the laughs, squeezing Gawain's shoulder.

Gawain didn't see anything funny about it. "I'm entitled," he muttered. "Sick. What's your excuse?"

_This_ time the smile Terence gave him was a real _squire_ smile, even if the voice and eyes still belonged to another world. "Bad week, is all. Very bad week."

Lynet sighed softly, leaning over Gaheris' still-snoring form to wipe the sweat from Gawain's face and neck. She glanced at Terence and quickly looked away. "I spoke to Robin just after Terence arrived," she muttered in Gawain's ear, knowing Terence could hear and not really caring. "The gateway he used only brought him as far as the last location your wife saw before your fever broke her spell. He rode hard for three days on a faery horse to get to the docks, without stopping for _anything._ And according to Robin, he wasn't exactly in prime condition when he left." Both knight and enchantress looked at their duke, who was scrutinizing the uneven flagstone floor with much more interest than it warranted.

"Daft faery prince," Gawain said, affection roughening his already weak voice. "I _am_ sorry."

Terence chuckled darkly and met his eyes again. "Don't be. It isn't your fault, mostly. I just…really didn't need this right now."

"Trouble at home?" Lynet asked, her face twisted in sudden concern.

"No," he answered, shaking his head. "Not really, anyway. Nothing I couldn't…take care of…My first execution, you know…and then a fight with Robin…" His head dropped into his hands and his shoulders shook violently for a moment. Then he raised his head. "I don't know how Arthur does it, being king. I spend one week in charge of an _island _and I feel like…like…"

_That_ wasn't even the squire voice. Terence hadn't sounded so unsure of himself since the first time he and Gawain met. He gave Terence a gentle smile and flipped his cheek. "Six weeks…no, two months," he informed him, tacking on his two weeks of fever. "One week for you, two months for us."

"So I gathered."

"And Avalon is hardly just an _island,_" Lynet added with a snort. "You're doing fine. And _you, _Sir Gawain…aren't you getting tired yet?"

"I've slept enough," he said, squirming until he was actually sitting instead of just reclining. "Does Lorie really watch me?"

That got him another squire smile. "Through Galatine, yes, and a couple of spells. Or she did until they snapped. Robin will probably be here soon to reattach them."

"And she really was so upset?" That crease appeared on his forehead again. Lynet ran her hand over it, but this time it didn't go away.

"We all were, Milord," Terence said, squeezing Gawain's shoulder again. "But we're not now. As Lynet said, Robin was here a while ago. He's probably telling Lorie about how well you are as we speak. And we'll both get strongly worded letters in return about what's going to happen if there's ever a next time."

Gawain chuckled and was very happy to find out laughing didn't hurt anymore. He laughed a little harder, even happier when Terence gave an answering laugh. Gaheris snorted in his sleep and rolled over, the thick blanket Lynet had draped over him slipping off. Lynet rolled her eyes and tucked him in again. "Relax," she said as she saw Gawain craning his neck to see his brother. "He's still asleep. And the floor isn't going to hurt him. In fact, you should _both_ probably follow his example."

"Don't want to," Gawain said.

"I really should be getting back to Avalon," Terence added. "I need to finish the hearing I started, make sure Lorie's all right, make amends with Robin, make an appearance before the rest of the enchanters—"

"No, you sleep," Gawain told him, trying and failing to look menacing. "You look like death warmed over."

"And you look like something death sneezed on."

"Boys, please," Lynet said. "How about this. You _both_ eat another bowl of broth while I ring the steward for another pair of beds to be brought in. Robin will return soon to replace the spells, Terence can make amends then, I can send a message to Ganscotter that says under no circumstance is Terence to return to Avalon for at least another month, and you can both read the letters I have no doubt Lorie will send. Then Terence can help me wrestle Gary into one of the new beds, Terence can take the other, and you can all three stay here until Gawain has recovered to my satisfaction. Then _you two_ can go back to Camelot, where I'm sure news has spread that Gawain is on his deathbed in Orkney. What do you say?"

The two blinked and looked at each other, then back at her. "You say that like we don't have much of a choice," Gawain muttered.

Lynet smiled in a way that made them both suddenly remember they were looking at a capable enchantress. "I know a spell that could knock you out at a word, Gawain, dear. Terence, it may not work on you, but I daresay Robin knows one that does."

Squire and knight looked at each other again and grimaced. "We're defeated, Milord," Terence said, voice glum. "The savage damsel has outmaneuvered us."

"Indeed," Gawain agreed, but he was smiling wider than ever before. _Squire Terence_ had spoken. All was right in the world again.


	5. I Serve

**WARNINGS**

**None! Back to book prompts, and no disaster today!**

* * *

><p>Arthur leaned forward, resting his forearms on the parapets in front of him. England was laid out before his eyes, a lovely patchwork of browns and greens and blues. He smiled lazily at the bustling town around the castle proper. At the sound of footsteps he tensed, but a small half-turn proved that it was only the court magician and not some noble with some new problem. Merlin's smile mirrored Arthur's, but there was something troubling in his eyes. "Hello, Merlin," he said, voice bright as Merlin stopped to lean against the wall next to Arthur. "Were you looking for me, or just out for a jaunt?"<p>

Merlin's smile widened. "Looking for you, actually. I have something to tell you, but it's such a beautiful day. It can wait."

Now Arthur's smile grew. "Well, then listen to this. Gawain told me before he left." He told Merlin the rough joke and before long, both men had dissolved into fits of laughter and joyful conversation. Merlin told Arthur several jokes they'd both heard before (they laughed anyway) and Arthur told Merlin all about the day at court Merlin had missed while he walked through the villages. Merlin told Arthur all the latest country gossip. Arthur had discovered quickly that it was impossible for the king of England to catch many minutes alone, so the long while he spent talking to one of his closest friends and advisors was a treasure. Nearly a half an hour later, Arthur hung his head and mumbled, "What would I do without you?"

Merlin sighed and bent his own whiskered head. "Oh, Arthur…"

"I'm serious. What _would_ I do without you? You keep the land safe from threats I cannot even see. You're one of my best friends—more than that. You've been a father to me, just as Ector has. You've taught me nearly everything I know—"

"Arthur, I'm leaving," Merlin said, smiling again but in a much different way than before.

The king laughed. "Ten years I've been king and you've never once been away from court. Well, where are you going and when can I expect you back?"

Merlin's voice took on a kindly tone that made Arthur's teeth ache. "No, I'm _leaving, _for good. Although I will not go without your blessing."

There was a stunned silence as Arthur processed the declaration. "…Why?" he said finally, his voice betraying his surprise and pain. "Have I done something wrong?"

"Nay, Arthur," said the magician, chuckling. "You've done everything right. I could not possibly be prouder of you."

"Then why—"

"Are you happy?"

Arthur paused before he answered, biting his lip in thought. "The land is at peace for the first time in nearly thirty years. I am married to the woman I love. I have found in the newly-made knights of Camelot not only worthy servants but good friends. And you are proud of me. How could I be anything _but_ happy?"

Merlin smiled again. "That is the first reason I am leaving now. The second is that I am old and tired and homesick. I have not even glimpsed my home in twenty years. I miss my family, my love. The ache has become a physical pain. My folk were never meant to spend so long in this realm and it has begun to hurt. I should have left long ago, and would have, except that you still needed me and there was no one to take my place." He sighed and shifted most of his weight from one side to the other. "And that is the third reason why I may go now. My replacement has arrived at Camelot."

Arthur scoffed, grinning sadly and glancing sideways at his magician. "Who could possibly replace you, Merlin? Who is this man, some new magician with powers to rival your own, ready to guide my steps toward a better England?"

"Oh, no," said Merlin with an answering scoff. "Your steps are your own, now. You have come into your own, and no one will be guiding you anywhere anymore. It is all up to you."

The smile slid off the king's face to be replaced by a dark, sober, grim expression best described as somewhere between resignation and horror.

"Don't worry," Merlin told him, bumping the king's shoulder with his own. "Ector and I have raised you well. You'll be fine."

"Your faith in me is alarming," Arthur muttered, making Merlin laugh louder and heartier than anything else had all day. "So this magician of yours—"

"I never said he was a magician. Only that he was taking my place as your and England's defender."

Arthur started, curiosity written all over his face. "He isn't a magician?"

"No."

"A warrior, then? One of my new knights."

Merlin shook his head. "No, he isn't a knight."

The king turned around, leaning his back against the parapet and looked at Merlin. "Is he a commoner then, or a merchant? Trader? Blacksmith? Farmer? Soldier?"

"No, he is none of those things."

Arthur crossed his arms. "Then who one earth is he?"

The magician grinned. "He is one who serves."

"…Merlin, everyone serves. You serve me and…the forces of magic, or whoever leads your people. The people serve me. _I _serve all of England. You literally just described _every single man_ in Camelot."

Merlin laughed again. "This man serves many masters, in more than one land. All his masters work toward the same purpose. He is greater than I in more ways than one, and can defend the country better than I can even imagine. He serves without desiring any compensation other than knowing he has done a worthwhile task, most happy in his work. He _serves,_ Arthur, and it is his greatest glory."

The king considered this for a moment. "…huh," he said at last. "I am not sure how that works, but I suppose it must. Will I know him when I see him?"

"I don't know. Did you?"

Arthur rolled his eyes and groaned loudly as Merlin snickered. "You _always_ do that to me!"

"Would you rather I start turning you into animals again?"

That made them both laugh again. "I _am _sorry, Arthur," Merlin said, shrugging and wiping tears of mirth from his eyes. "Enigmatic statements have become a force of habit. But I really cannot tell you who his is. Even _he _doesn't know his place in the full scope of things, though he will soon. Defender of the King and Protector of England are only two of his _auxiliary_ duties."

"What a busy man."

They fell silent. Arthur was avoiding the issue and Merlin was letting him; both understood that. The unspoken words hung over them, ominous and almost tangible. In the end it was, as always, Merlin who spoke first.

"Arthur, my escort leaves tonight." He put his hand on the great king's shoulder.

Arthur drew in a deep breath. "Stay, Merlin. I'd miss you too much if you left. And I still need you, really."

"But I miss the land of my birth and the woman I love. Let me go home."

"Can't Camelot be your home now? Please. I'm scared. I can't rule without you."

Merlin drew back his hand as if he'd been struck. "I'm sorry," he said, pain scratching his voice. He pushed away from the wall and, before a horrified Arthur understood what he was doing, dropped to one knee before his sovereign. He grabbed one of the king's hands and bent his head in reverence. "My lord, my king, my friend, my son. If you love me, set me free."

There were tears shining in Arthur's eyes as he pulled Merlin back to his feet. "Go, my friend, and with my blessing."

Such a look of peace and contentment and sheer _bliss_ spread across Merlin's face as he pulled Arthur into a hug that the king felt at once that it was not so bad if Merlin had to go, as long as the pain lines he had never even noticed vanished for good. "Farewell, Arthur," he said, releasing the king.

He turned and marched down the wall and into the castle, not looking back. Arthur never saw him again.

* * *

><p><em>A light of recognition flamed in her eyes and she hissed, "You! Who are you? I thought I knew all the great sorcerers, but who are you?" <em>

_Terence did not speak, and at last Gawain answered, "This is my squire, Mother."  
><em>

_Morgause ignored her son. "I must know," she said. "Who are you?" Her voice was almost a scream. _

_"I am a servant," Terence answered. "That is all. I serve your son, and I serve King Arthur." **The Squire's Tale, chapter 12 "The Enchantress," page number unknown.**_

* * *

><p><strong>Note One: Page number is unknown because I can't find my copy of ST and I typed that excerpt from Google Book Previews (that was the one I had in mind for this story and I'm so, so glad that page was part of the preview. Less glad that suddenly they don't show page numbers anymore.). <strong>

**Note Two: So I recently discovered the TV show _Merlin_. I like it, I like it a lot. But for the first, like, five or six episodes, I couldn't quit yelling at the computer for screwing up the stories because I had just recently reread a couple Squire's Tales books and those plus the original legends were tumbling around in my brain. And then I got Inspired. So would anyone be interested (or would anyone lynch me) if I wrote a crossover between_ Merlin_ and the Squire's Tales books in which an OC from Morris' England somehow got stuck in _Merlin's_ Albion after Arthur's fall and must now find his or her place in a brand new and very different story while at once coming to terms with having watched England burn?  
><strong>


	6. Gawain and Terence

**Here's a short little character piece for you, no book prompt, little scary/sad.**

* * *

><p>To anyone who knew anything about anything in Camelot, <em>Gawain<em> and _Terence_ were eternally linked names. Oh, certainly it was sometimes _Sir Gawain _and _Squire Terence_, or _Sir Gawain _and _his squire,_ and to complete outsiders, _Sir Gawain _and_ that eerie man who follows Sir Gawain around_. Among friends it was sometimes even _Ruddy Scotsman _and _Cabbageheaded Domnoddy, _or _Oi! Gawain! Who Invited You In Here? _and _Haven't You Learned To Knock Yet, Lad? _If one of them was on his own, their names became _Where's Your Shadow?_ and _Where's Your Master Wandered Off To Now?_ But no matter what the names were, they were always together.

Gawain was a pillar of the court, one of the focus points of the Round Table within the Round Table; Terence, while not having that luxury on the _outside,_ could function just as well in that position or better while hiding in the shadow of the Squire's Court. The two (Terence particularly) possessed more power behind the throne than anyone would ever know. When one (usually Arthur) needed information that was public knowledge to everyone except him, he knew he could find it in Gawain's chambers. When one (again, usually Arthur) needed unorthodox or delicate advice or an awkward job to be done, he needed to look no further than wherever the two of them happened to be. Certainly they were not _inseparable _(after all, Terence had a spooky reputation to maintain and how else would he know everything that was going on in the city and the kingdom?) but it was still more likely that one would find them together than apart. They withheld nothing from each other, even secrets kept from the rest of the world.

No one who didn't know them well could see it, but the secrets they kept only for each other brimmed in their eyes whenever Gawain and Terence met each other's gaze. There was an entire lifetime sheltered behind each man's lids, and when they saw each other those lifetimes jumped to the surface as a curious, joyful light and a small, harrowed smile. Reflections of other worlds flowed from them; shaughuses and stew pots, boar-people and sunny day wars, empty shells of armor and men with green skin, aunts and dragons, fire-breathing huntsmen and Terence in a dress, battles with ancient warriors and evil plots overturned, baptisms of water and fire and blood, crossings through rivers and lakes and moats, meetings with mothers and fathers and sons, honor and shame, right and reason, a wedding, a knighting, a crowning of sorts, and always a sort of longsuffering homesickness. Of course they were practically inseparable; how could they not be, with all of _that_ binding them together?

Perhaps some of it was put upon, the constant contact between them. Certainly in his more ironic moods, Terence would puppy-chase at Gawain's heels, guessing what his master needed before he asked for it, being such an honestly _flawless_ servant that Gawain was a little sickened. And there were times, harder, unrestful times, when Gawain hardly dared let Terence out of his sight because the only things that separated a human prince from a faery prince in the eyes of an assassin were that the faeries had fewer guards and a natural reluctance to die quickly and _there have been attempts, lad, so don't give me that look._ But there were other times when the homesickness grew to be too much to bear alone and they were always together, grieving silently, reaching out without even looking at each other, gaining comfort from the other's presence alone. Times when they needed each other, not to talk or do anything but just _be _there.

They were accepted, for the most part. Yes, most people forgot Terence was even there until he was gone (and his uncanny silence aided them in that respect). Sometimes, especially in those Inner Round Table meetings, Terence fit in so well that it was hard to remember that he was not a noble or knight all along (and he was both, though servant was still his favorite role). It was easy to pay attention to one or the other with both of them there, but when it was just Gawain or just Terence, it felt like there was something missing. They worked well together, too, their loyalties feeding off each other in just the right ways. Terence kept Gawain from (most) fool-hardy actions; Gawain kept Terence from losing himself to his responsibilities. Sometimes they even functioned as a single unity—send Gawain to do something and it is _understood_ that you will be getting twice the manpower for half the effort.

Perhaps one day, the historians would forget the squire that followed behind the Maiden's Knight, but that never bothered Terence and Gawain made sure he never looked bothered. No one else ever considered the idea; the two were too drawn to each other.

To the outsider, Gawain and Terence's relationship transcended that of master and servant; they were best friends. To the insider, it went further than that; they were _brothers,_ and closer than a right lot of blood kin to be found.

And only three people in Camelot knew just how accurate the assessment of _brother _was.

They had whole-heartedly intertwined their destinies within mere weeks of meeting. It may have been strange to others, how quickly they connected and linked their names forever. _Gawain _and _Terence._ _Knight_ and _Squire_. Strangers would wonder about such a fast friendship across stations and try to see the other worlds in their eyes. Friends didn't look; they could feel the worlds there without trying.

_But that's the difference, _their friends would say when asked. _We know those two. You can't see what they've seen, so you accept it and move on._ _Because there's always more than meets the eye with them, and while you'll never know what it truly is, you'll always know why. _

_Why?_ The strangers would ask.

It's so simple, really.

Terence was never _just_ a squire and Gawain was never _just _a knight.

Many can't see it at first and most never will, but it changes nothing. The two were linked, and there wasn't a single power in any world that could divide them, and many of _them_ had tried. _Terence _and _Gawain._

The Squire and his Knight, bound permanently through history and story and song, service and friendship and brotherhood, Camelot and England and Avalon. To the shore and the waters and the Island after. To the brink of death, and beyond.

* * *

><p><strong>Question: will you ever see me on <em>Merlin <em>fanfics? Answer: No idea. Maybe?  
><strong>


	7. The Idles of the King

**Book prompt, of an entirely different kind. Quote comes from Legend of the King, and if the words are underlined they aren't mine. Still sad and depressing, but I'll make it up to you, promise. Besides, I wanted to let you know I hadn't forgotten you just because I am internetless. 3**

Terence hurried back to Arthur's camp and stopped before the king's tent, but before he could report, there came a crash from the beach behind them, then shouts, then a cry of pain. Arthur tore out of his tent, sword in hand. "They're behind us!" he called. 

"No, sire!" shouted Terence. "They're north of us!" 

Arthur paused, thinking. "North? You're sure?" 

"Yes, sire. Someone's on the beach, but Mordred's main forces are north." 

Arthur hesitated only a second,but that second held a lifetime of deliberation and memory. As king, he had learned the value of just a second of thought, had learned how to trap the time in his mind and stretch it out to an eternity. He had always been expected to make decisions quickly, but never in haste. It took some practice and it was exhausting, but always worth it.

In this second, this one second to think on Squire Terence's—no, _Sir_ Terence's—words before he led all his brave men into what could be their deaths, he remembered the boy who became the knight standing beside him now. If the words had come from anyone else's mouth, it would have warranted two, perhaps even three seconds of thought. If many others had said those words with such surety as Terence displayed now, he would have wondered if they were some sort of traitor.

But this was _Terence, _who had not so long ago been just a squire, knighted far past time. This was _Terence,_ who _always_ knew things he shouldn't. _Terence,_ who Lady Morgan made it a _point_ to seek out _specifically_, every time she visited, even while he was still a squire with no family to speak of and no desire to advance his position. _Terence, _who Arthur sometimes thought he could hear in his dreams.

From the moment Terence had stepped into Camelot, chasing Gawain's heels like a silent, enthusiastic puppy, Arthur had known there was something different about him. Arthur may not have had much of a background in magic, but he saw the Look every time he caught a glimpse of himself in the mirror. He knew very well what to look for, and on Terence's face, he didn't have to look hard. Yet the boy had been raised by a holy man; surely he had no idea of _what _he was, let alone _who. _

There was no mistaking Terence's faery blood after the Battle of Five Kings. According to Kai the boy had come tearing down a hill with all five kings behind him, clutching the mane of a stolen charger, bearing that blasted ring. He would be forever in Terence's debt for that alone, ending that war before it had barely started, saving hundreds of lives and a lifetime of headaches. But how could he have known that the ring existed, let alone that it bore any importance?

And then there was Merlin's cryptic message before he left for Avalon, about the Protector who gloried in service. Arthur had thought and searched for _months_ after Merlin's departure, trying to puzzle out the man's identity. Then he became so ill and he could have _sworn_ he could see Gawain and Terence struggling with a witch over a cauldron and a suit of armor. He chalked it up to fever dreams until he went to see his nephew after his recovery. That _bow, _that mid-waist bow Terence gave, seemingly out of sheer instinct, the one only given to an equal. He had blushed about it afterward and seemed to want to apologize and bow again, deeper, but Arthur had cut him off with an answering bow of his own. And it had felt _right. Ah, _Arthur remembered thinking for the first time since Merlin's departure. _Perhaps this is the man. _

Sometimes he had thought he had it all wrong, that Terence was nothing but a particularly insightful squire. Sometimes he wondered how he could ever have thought it was anyone else. Again and again, something would happen, and again and again, Terence would be there, on the side, in the shadows, poking, prodding, suggesting, explaining things he had no right knowing. You wouldn't notice it, not unless you knew Camelot the way Arthur did. The court came to accept it—The ones with more brains than titles, that is, and the rest didn't matter much. It became common knowledge. Terence _knows. _Terence can help. Terence can fix it. Terence will see.

Arthur never did find out exactly who Terence was, but he decided as he knighted him that it didn't really matter. And as he had knighted Terence, it didn't feel like a regular knighting. Of course, he had just made a fool of himself in front of most of the city, scared a lot of people, shamed himself and his queen by dredging up the dead past, almost named a conscienceless murdering monster as his heir, saw his _son _(and by _heaven, _he still loved the boy) try to murder a man he considered family, and seen Morgause's return, so emotions _were_ running a bit high at Terence's knighting. But it wasn't that. It was something else, some sort of empty satisfaction that didn't make sense. He felt like, perhaps, knighting Terence was a little redundant, though he couldn't see why. Perhaps knighthood seemed not good enough for Terence. No; too _little. _He was already acting as _more_ than a knight. To give him a title that could potentially lighten and lessen the importance of his duties (and Arthur understood very well, too, how _awkward_ the transition from servant to master would be for One Who Serves) seemed a bit unfair. Yet it also felt _right. _Like that first bow, all those years ago. Like he wasn't giving Terence anything, but acknowledging something he'd had all along.

Perhaps that made Terence a little dual-natured, but it fit him. A human knighthood for a faery king.

_Now what made me think that?_ Arthur wondered, but dismissed it. A second is far too short for vain curiosity.

If it were anyone else, Arthur would have taken three seconds, four, maybe even five if he didn't know them that well. If it were someone he trusted, he still would have taken perhaps an extra breath before making his decision. If it were a hunch of _his_, even, he would have dismissed it in an instant. But this was _Terence,_ who _knew_ things and played with people's dreams.

Arthur hestitated only a second, then said, "To arms! We march _north!" _


	8. Shaughuses

**I told you I'd make it up to you! Admittedly, I am a little stunned/ashamed/laughing at myself because I took a serious subject that I myself have treated seriously and decided to do a comedy. So it's light and funny with a slightly dark subtext buried deep underneath, because even if the dream was funny now, it was NOT funny while it was going on. **

**References to book one and two.**

* * *

><p>Terence awoke to the sound of a blood curdling scream. His eyes popped open and he bolted out of bed, tossing his blankets to the other side of the room in his haste. One hand curled around the hilt of the dagger he kept at his bedside while the other grabbed for the back of the chair nearest to him. He pulled the chair in front of him, legs front, as if holding a shield. There was another shout, followed by a loud thump and a heavy exhale, as though all the wind had been knocked out of a body. Breathing like he'd run the length of the castle, Terence edged toward Gawain's room, the source of the noise.<p>

A hesitantly lit candle revealed a sheepish Gawain lying on the floor beside his bed, entangled in his blankets, blinking blearily, a blush to match his hair already spreading across his cheeks. His sleepy eyes focused on Terence and the blush darkened. "Sorry, Lad. Shaughuses," he muttered, seeing a frown form on Terence's face as he relaxed the hand holding the dagger and put down the chair. He should have known, really. From what Gaheris had said on their last quest together, having a faery squire had done horrible things to Gawain's sleeping habits.

Terence rolled his eyes, willing his heart to stop pounding, and started back for his room. "It could have been worse," Gawain called to his retreating back. "Remember when I sleepwalked through the nightmare about Elaine in the Ghost Forest? Or rather, sleep_stripped, _right into the Great Hall? Or the night I near tore my armor to bits, dreaming it was Father reanimated again?"

The squire turned, an amused smile tugging at his lips. "Next time you dream about the underwater road, remind your dreams that shaughuses kill instantly and corpses don't scream as they fall off their horses."

He turned around again, feeling rather than seeing Gawain's indignant glare. "I did not scream!"

"Like a lily-handed lady-in-waiting."

"You liar!"

"The scullery maid, when she saw that mouse, sounded more manly than—ooph! Oh, that's really chivalrous, hurling a pillow when a man's back is turned." The squire dropped the dagger and scooped up the projectile in question while Gawain armed himself with another.

"You'll get that and worse—"

They were interrupted by the door bursting open, revealing a grim-faced and ridiculous-looking Tor in a nightshirt, waving a sword over his head, with Plogrun just behind him. "Gawain, Terence, are you all right?" Tor asked, surveying the room with practiced eyes. "We heard someone scream and it came from here."

Gawain and Terence looked at each other and shrugged. "Shaughuses," Terence explained, raising his arm at the same time his master did.

Tor quickly received a face full of pillow. He and Plogrun backed out of the rooms amid a shower of feathers and a round of wicked laughter, closing the door behind them.

Sometimes it was best to let one's friends fight their battles alone.


	9. The Assassin

**WARNING: THIS ONESHOT JUST BOOTED THE WHOLE STORY UP TO A T RATING. Graphic (but still tasteful) violence, scary sequences. Yikes!  
><strong>

**No spoilers that I can think of. Response fic, because everyone wanted to see an "attempt" that Gawain mentioned two stories ago in "Gawain and Terence."**

* * *

><p>A twig snapped and Terence jerked awake, blushing in the darkness. He was meant to be <em>watching, <em>after all. If Gawain caught him dozing, he'd never hear the end of it. He glanced around, blinking as his eyes readjusted to the dim light of the bed of embers that had been a roaring campfire only a few hours before. The woods seemed quiet, but it was the peaceful kind of quiet rather than the someone's-sneaking-up-behind-you kind of quiet. Terence shifted his back against the tree he was leaning on, spreading his legs out in front of him. His right thigh found a rock, but he didn't move. Perhaps the discomfort would keep him alert.

Gawain grunted in his sleep and rolled to face the dying fire. Terence's quick eyes scanned the man's left arm, currently bound and in a makeshift sling. He was no expert, but he feared his friend had broken that wrist in the previous week's fight with a black bear. He almost smiled at the memory Gawain's positively _girlish_ shriek upon discovering that that particular cave was occupied. The consequent impromptu wrestling match while Terence stood in the rain with his bow drawn, waiting for an open shot, had been a bit less rewarding.

Satisfied that the bandage had held and Gawain had not aggravated any of his other, more minor scratches, Terence leaned his head back against his tree and sighed. The problem with keeping watch was that there was either nothing to do or someone was likely to die. There was hardly ever a middle ground, except perhaps when friends decided it was clever to jump into your camp and midnight and scream bloody murder just to watch you squirm. Even then, someone was likely to get killed, albeit for completely different reasons. Terence's eyelids drooped again. He was debating between waking Gawain to keep watch and just falling asleep where he sat when he was suddenly very, very wide awake.

He didn't know what had changed, what had startled him so rapidly. What he did know was that every hair on his body was standing on end, every muscle was tense, and chills were running down his spine. He swallowed around a lump in his throat while warning bells went off in his mind. The forest around him was just as peaceful as it had been ten minutes ago, but the only thing he could think of now was getting away.

He forced himself to crawl to where Gawain slept. Terence put one hand over the knight's mouth and shook his shoulder with the other. Gawain was awake in seconds, grabbing Terence's wrist with his good arm, then relaxing as he realized where he was. Terence removed his hands. "What's wrong, Terence?" he whispered, glancing around the tiny clearing.

"I don't know, Milord," Terence admitted, "but we need to go. Now."

The men climbed to their feet, moving around the clearing as quietly as possible. Gawain reached for the big bag of supplies he had been using as a pillow, but Terence shook his head. "Leave it," he whispered, the all-encompassing _wrongness_ of the chills still running down his back making his voice sharp. Gawain hesitated before following him toward the tree where the horses were tied.

They never made it that far.

There were seven of them, taller than what a natural man should be, hard to see in the dark of night, covered in a short, coarse black fur from head to foot. They wore white masks with bizarre red markings, and human-like hair sprouted from above the masks and fell down their backs in long, greasy curls. They were so slim they might have passed as fuzzy quarterstaves if they stood perfectly still long enough—but their hands! Their hands were larger than their heads, and each finger— or finger-claw, judging from the way one cut into a tree as it sprang from its hiding place—was a foot long. And they were _fast, _already closing in_. _Terence shivered, icy sweat running down his spine at the sight of them, as he lunged for his long bow and fired an arrow in one smooth motion.

The first one went down with Terence's arrow in its torso. It squirmed and writhed and made horrific squealing-clicking sounds as it bled black blood into the earth, but Terence didn't stop to dwell on the hit. Galatine flashed in the dim moonlight as Gawain parried a swipe from a set of claws as one charged him and pinned him against a tree. He looked clumsy, trying to fight with one good arm a thing that had two hands full of weapons, but his grim expression was nothing less than ghastly in the moonlight and it was clear Gawain wasn't planning to loose. Not that Terence watched for more than a second. The other five beasts darted toward _him_, mouths opening below the masks to reveal triple sets of needle-like teeth.

Terence fired another arrow, but this one missed its target. The next shot dropped another one of the things. It, too, fell to the ground thrashing, and the action tripped another. It landed on top of the dying thing, and in its death-throes, it slashed its fellow open. The remaining three were on him before he could draw back another arrow. He blocked one slash with his bow, glad for not the first time that it was unbreakable*. The creature howled and ripped the weapon from his hands, tossing it into a tree nearby. The force of the motion threw Terence to the ground as well. He unsheathed his dagger and cut into the closest skinny black leg in reach. One of its fellows grabbed his arm, its finger-claws slicing into his skin, and yanked him to his feet. Gritting his teeth, he plunged his dagger into chest of the one holding him. It screeched and jerked away, taking the dagger with it. Another took its place before he could even draw a breath, pinning his arms behind his back. The last one, blood dripping from its leg, sprang forward and sank its teeth into the tender spot where the squire's left shoulder met with his neck.

Terence screamed.

Suddenly Gawain was there, and _everywhere._ Distracted as they were with their prey, the creatures did not have time to react to the enraged knight tearing his best friend out of their grip before he was running one through. The sling was long gone and there was pain shining in his eyes from using his injured wrist—although only the practiced observer could see it behind the red veil of sheer _rage_ the knight reflected.

Terence dropped to his knees while Gawain fought. A strange, dizzy sensation swept over him, and the feeling that his bones were turning to ice. He started shivering and couldn't stop. His chest grew tight—like his lungs were trying to break his ribs. It was getting hard to breathe.

Gawain, meanwhile, had tripped over a still-squirming body and fallen. The black creature opened its nightmarish mouth and pounced. He lifted his sword arm before the thing could catch itself. It landed on Galatine. The knight rose to his feet and pulled the blade clean.

The whole fight—from the time the things had appeared to the time the last one was dead—only lasted about three minutes.

Gawain looked to where he had dropped Terence just in time to hear a pained gasp and watch the squire start to fall face-forward. He jumped over another corpse and caught the younger man as he fell, laying him gently on his back, muttering assurances into his ear in a soothing tone. He drew his own dagger and cut Terence's tunic away, wincing at his own scratches, both new and half-healed. He poked a little at the bite once all the cloth was gone. The skin around it was turning purple in the moonlight. The trembling squire's eyes were wide with pain and panic, and he was gasping as though he were drowning.

"Poison?" he asked in a gruff, worried whisper, meeting the fearful eyes in concern.

Terence nodded and drew another pained breath, his vision shifting out of focus. Gawain cursed loudly and vividly, in English and Old Scottish. The squire slapped at his arm in response, which just seemed to make his master angry. "Don't you dare. If you're d-_dying_, Terence, I'll bloody well use any kind of language I want!"

"Not—that—" Terence breathed in between gasps, voice hoarse. "Guin—galet's-saddle—bags. Right-side…inner—pocket. Unmarked…bottle…Go…"

He raced toward Guingalet on the other side of the small clearing. The horses were neighing wildly, not yet recovered from the sudden appearance of such other worldly _things. _Guingalet snapped at Gawain's bad hand as he plunged it into the right saddle bag, but Gawain pushed him away with the good one. He pulled a small bottle out of the bag. He couldn't see a marking in the dim moonlight, but he wrapped both hands around the bottle and felt for a label, to be sure. Finding nothing, he ran back to his squire, lifting the younger man's head into his lap.

Terence's hands were shaking too badly to undo the stopper so Gawain did it for him, pressing the open bottle into the squire's hand. "What is it?" he asked.

"…no…idea," came the response before Terence downed half of it in one gulp. He cringed at the taste before reaching out with the hand not holding the bottle. "Gawain…" he whispered.

The knight took Terence's hand with his good one and gave him a reassuring squeeze. "Right here," he answered. The squire nodded, setting his jaw against what was coming, and poured the rest of the liquid over the bite. The discolored skin sizzled and Gawain found out exactly how strong Terence's grip was.

Whatever was in the bottle, it worked almost as fast as the poison had. Within minutes Terence had stopped shivering and, though very pale, there was no more bruise-like purple on his skin. He was still out of breath and felt faint, but was well enough to be comfortable while Gawain propped him up against a tree and saw to both of their other wounds.

"What were those things?" Gawain asked, glancing around at the now-still corpses and suppressing a shudder. He focused on wrapping Terence's shoulder instead.

Terence, eyelids drooping a bit, gave an almost imperceptible shrug. "If…I had to…guess, I'd say they…they were some kind of…Unseelie assassins," he said, voice low and rough. The potion had stung, going down his throat. "Robin told me…a couple weeks ago, they…were getting rumors…of an attempt…of some kind…didn't think it'd…be on me…"

Gawain glared at his squire while trying (and failing) to re-bandage his own throbbing broken wrist. "I'm guessing that's where the mystery antidote came from?"

"He said…it might come in…handy. Didn't…tell me…what or when. Seemed…like as good a time…as any to figure out what…it was for."

"And you knew all this two weeks ago and _didn't think to tell me?_"

"S'stupid," Terence admitted with a yawn. "Didn' think. Fergot."

Gawain remained angry for all of five minutes, finishing his own dressings in silence. Then he sighed, very gently smacked the back of his best friend's head, and rechecked the bandage on the bite. "Domnoddy," he breathed fondly into the squire's ear. "Next time, _pass on_ these little warnings, so I can be ready. I almost lost you, and do you know what your father—or our wives—would do to me if I let that happen?"

He slurred something in return, his head dropping forward into a much-needed, drug-induced, healing sleep. Gawain picked him up with both arms (he had yet to replace the sling) and carried him to where the now-calm horses stood, slinging him clumsily over Guingalet's saddle with a grunt before climbing in himself. He could find a different place for them to recover—he didn't want to spend another second with those bodies.

It was the first assassination attempt the two would face together, and although Terence did not get many, it would not be the last.

* * *

><p>* The Squire's Tale, Page 30. Terence receives a bow, enchanted by Merlin. It cannot be broken and the string will never rot.<p>

* * *

><p><strong>Also, coming up soon, a mini-series in Especially There in which I satisfy my desire to see Arthur figure out just who Gawain's Squire is. One shots, unconnected, sporadically written, each outlining a different way that Terence's secrets could be revealed. I'm in a revealing mood, aren't I?<br>**


	10. Love and Murder

**Um...yeah. My brain broke and it made my fingers throw up on the keyboard. So this is totally OOC, mostly crack...funny, admittedly...just...read. No spoilers, imaginary knight at the end...I'm sorry?  
><strong>

* * *

><p>The second assassination attempt was much clumsier and far less exciting than the first. In fact, it wasn't even on Terence—some faction had heard of Gawain's marriage to Lorie and sought to…well, what the faction wanted to do once they got Gawain was never entirely determined. They managed to get someone to sneak into Gawain's chambers, but Terence walked in first and received a face-full of…<em>something <em>meant for his master_. _Gawain had been behind him at the time. Gawain picked up the short, blue, would-be assassin with one hand—the terrified faery babbled his apologies and begged for mercy—and tossed him out the tower window.

Whatever he was, he bounced when he hit the ground. He bounced into the Squire's Court, where several squires shouted in fear and bludgeoned him into unconsciousness with the swords they were supposed to be sharpening. Gawain wasn't paying attention by then. He'd already turned back to his squire, who was slumped against the wall with a most startling grin on his face.

Thankfully, Morgan had been at court at the time. She walked by the Squire's Court, saw the blue faery man, wrenched him from the grip of the squires, woke him up, heard his confession, and sent him on his way to Avalon's dungeons. Then she marched up to Gawain's chambers, where a sweating, giggling Terence was lying on Gawain's bed, trying to carve the mortar out from between two stones in the wall with his fingernails, while Gawain tried to bring his temperature down. She examined the squire, but she did it with a smirk that suggested she already knew what was wrong with him.

"It's not dangerous," she said, leaning back to watch the Duke of Avalon chew on a blanket. "It was meant to incapacitate while the faery took you elsewhere, not to injure or kill. He isn't hurt. I could give him something, but it would take a full day to make and I won't be here that long. Not that it would matter much, since the fit would be half over by then."

"Excuse me?" Gawain asked, yanking the blanket away. "What do you mean, half-over?"

She sighed, running a damp cloth over Terence's forehead. "He'll have a light fever for the next week or so, but for the most part the spores will be out of his system in two days. Today will be the worst. He's not in any pain, just delirious. He can't speak, not really anyway, and he won't be in his right mind. You'll have to keep an eye on him to make sure he doesn't hurt himself. Like that."

She nodded at Terence's hand. He'd found the dagger under Gawain's pillow and was waving it toward his own ear. Gawain grunted and snatched it away.

"And tomorrow?" he asked.

"Have you ever seen Terence drunk?" she returned with another smirk. "Because if you haven't, that'll be your chance."

"Do I get hungover Terence the day after that?"

She nodded, the smile growing. "Beyond that you'll just have to wait 'til the fever fades. He'll be fine."

"Oh really?" Gawain caught Terence's wrist as a hand swung up toward his face, nearly bopping him on the nose. "And how will I explain this to everyone else?"

Morgan shrugged and left.

Gawain enlisted Eileen the first day, knowing she would be more than willing to help, but the second day she turned her cooling cloth over to him and said she was going to go to her room and pass out now, thanks. Apparently the spores made it impossible for Terence to sleep as well. Gawain told Arthur that Terence was ill, which was true to an extent, and he would be in his chambers tending his squire until he was well again. He resigned himself to a day of boredom and loopy, pointless conversation. Terence was a coherent, slap-happy drunk.

For the most part, anyway.

"Milord. Milord Milord Milord _Milord._"

"What, Lad?"

"D'you know what I _love? _What I really, really _love?_"

"Eileen?"

Terence froze with his mouth hanging open, as though the name had thrown him completely off track. "…That's a _who, _not a _what,_" he said, sounding a little scolding.

"I'm sorry. What is it that you love then?"

Terence sat up and clapped his hands together in front of him. "I love it when people face me. When they look at me, look right at me. When they look me in the eye and say…"

Gawain waited a moment, then turned from polishing his armor to look at where his squire sat at the table. "…And say what?"

The squire looked at him, face blank. "What?"

"You love it when people look at you and say…"

"Say what?"

"Exactly."

"…What?"

Gawain sighed, closing his eyes and counting to ten. "Terence, you were telling me you loved something. What is it that you love? When people look you in the eye and say…"

"Oh, right. I love it when people look straight at me and say _there's no such thing as faeries_." He grinned at his master. "The irony is _magnificent. _I can't get enough. Every time…"

"Does that happen often?"

The squire shrugged and wiped the sweat from around his mouth. "A few times a year. Last time was Sir Roderick. It was _hilarious._"

"I can only imagine."

Terence looked at him blankly. "Imagine what?"

"Imagine…You know, never mind."

"All right. Hey, milord, you want to know what I really love?"

Gawain sighed again, the back of his neck turning red.

He was going to _kill _that blue man, he really was. If he didn't kill his squire first.


	11. Due Knowledge: Half Faery

**Here's the "Arthur Learns About Terence" miniseries I promised. The following three (four?) chapters are connected and for the most part unrelated to the rest of this story. One (two?) is (are?) funny, one is quiet and tense, and one is nerve-wrecking. They are very AU and have all the spoilers you would expect to find in a reveal story. Enjoy.**

* * *

><p>Arthur pulled his horse up short, listening for a moment. There was a large, rather ominous crashing sound coming from somewhere to his left. Common sense told him he should be riding away, as fast as he could. But where was the adventure in that? He turned his horse to the left and urged it through the brush.<p>

Just as another thing crashed through a bush on the other side. There was a curious rustling, what appeared to be a small explosion of movement that clouded Arthur's vision. When the dust cleared he found himself looking at an unarmed, solitary figure, also blinking as if unsure of what had just happened. And the figure was familiar, albeit dressed in clothing he would _never _have imagined.

"Terence?" he asked, disbelieving, before he could stop himself.

"…Your Majesty?" The squire asked, raising his hand to block the sun as he recognized the voice.

"What are you doing here?" both asked at the same time.

A short, awkward silence later, Arthur lifted his visor to reveal a dark blush. "…I asked you first."

"No you didn't." Terence bit his lip and blushed at the words that had burst from his mouth unchecked, obviously surprised past all court decorum. "I mean, we asked at the same time, sire." And he raised that stupid, cursed eyebrow, so well-known among the inner court. It was a sort of deferential half-challenge that didn't suit a normal squire at all, but was part of what made Terence _Terence. _The king didn't have a response.

Arthur felt ridiculously like a young boy being scolded by his mother and he squirmed in the saddle. His mare nickered and twitched, picking up on her rider's nervousness. "I'm, um…I'm praying."

Terence smirked, knowing _exactly _what was going on. "You mount a horse, dress in full armor, and ride ten miles from the castle to…pray?"

"I pray better when I'm bashing another knight about."

"I'm sure the knight being bashed prays better, too, Sire."

"Indeed. Holiness all around," Arthur said, holding back a smile. "And you? What are you doing ten miles from Camelot?"

"Running away," Terence said, straight-faced, his voice deadpan. "I cannot stand another day of demeaning servitude. Let the knights scrub their own armor. And Gawain snores. I'm through. I'm going to be a cook at King Mark's court instead."

Arthur's lips curled. "Didn't Mark recently execute a cook because he found a hair in his flan?"

"Exactly. There's an opening now."

They held serious expressions for another few seconds before bursting out laughing. "Really, Terence," Arthur said at last, wiping a tear of mirth from his eyes. "What _are _you doing here?"

"Who, me?" The squire shrugged and dusted an invisible fleck of dirt off his shoulder. "Nothing. Walking. Marching, actually. Participating in a march. So, marching. That's all."

It was Arthur's turn to raise an eyebrow. "Marching? Wearing _that?"_ He let eyes wandering over the squire's lanky frame, admiring the outfit despite himself. Terence was notorious for being a very plain-dressing squire—the epitome of the careless English woodsman, the French pages called him. That reputation would change if they saw him now. One would think the resplendent short-sleeved sapphire tunic with silver embroidery, silvery-fawn colored leggings, brilliant blue boots (blue! Leather boots! _How?_), silver filigree armband around his bicep, and crown of green leaves and blue flowers on his brow might have looked more at place on a show knight; Terence wore the finery as a second skin. The squire didn't look foolish. He looked a little frightening, although not happy with Arthur's silent appraisal.

He fidgeted under Arthur's cool gaze. "It's a ceremonial march."

"And where is your company?"

He hesitated a moment, then gave a high-pitched whistle and a hundred…_things_ melted from the shadows. Arthur's horse startled in surprise and it took a moment to get her under control again. When he did, he looked at the company and stared. They had skin colors that Arthur was certain were never meant to be skin colors—like bright yellow and steel gray, for instance. A few of them had more eyes than anything had a right to have. Half of the company was under three feet tall, and most of them appeared to have leaves for hair. Arthur looked, wide-eyed, at Terence, who shrugged. "Like I said, ceremonial march."

As if that explained anything. "Ah…Terence? Have you ever figured out how much faery blood you have?"

"…Half, sire. On my father's side. But I'd prefer it if you didn't go spreading it around."

"Of course not. Half, you say?" The squire nodded. "Half human and half faery?"

"Yes, sire."

"…Right then. Carry on. I'll be back in Camelot before sundown if you will."

Terence's lips twitched. "I'll see if I can manage, sire. Good day to you."

"Good day."

They blinked at each other a moment before turning on their heels—or hooves, in Arthur's case—and went off in opposite directions, each trying to convince themselves they had only imagined the meeting.


	12. Due Knowledge: Faery Knight

**Here's the quiet-and-tense chapter. Enjoy!**

* * *

><p>Gawain and Terence were seated opposite each other at a small table when King Arthur knocked and let himself in. Both jumped to their feet and bowed, Terence moving behind Gawain. Their smiles grew. "Your Majesty!" Gawain said, reaching out a hand in greeting. "To what do we owe the pleasure?"<p>

Arthur took the outstretched hand and gave them a half-smile. "Business, I'm afraid. I'd like to talk about Terence's position in Camelot."

"Of course!" Gawain said. "Please, have a seat!" he started to sit down.

Arthur hesitated, then shook his head. "Nay, nephew. Leave us."

Terence tensed. Gawain frowned, confusion flickering into his eyes. "But sire, it's customary to speak to the master regarding the placement of the servant."

"Perhaps, yes, but Terence is not a normal servant, is he?" The servant in question looked about as comfortable as a man marked for execution, his eyes darting between his two masters. Arthur gave them another half-smile. "You can relax, both of you. I just want to speak with Terence on his own, without you two silently conspiring to lie to me. Don't think I haven't noticed your wordless conversations any time certain questions are asked." The two were looking at each other now and had the grace to look guilty. He smiled in full. "I don't mind, but I don't want to compete with it tonight. Gawain, leave us, please."

Gawain shot one more look to his squire before he bowed himself out of his own chambers and closed the door behind him.

"Please sit, Terence," Arthur said, waving across the table as he sat in Gawain's vacated chair.

Terence sat, looking a little stunned.

The king leaned forward, arms resting on the table. "I have a list that I keep in my mind," he began, trying to sound as casual as possible, "of all the great deeds my knights have performed. Some names have long lists beneath them and some have short, but all of them have at least one. They have to perform that one to become knights in the first place." He smiled. "You can guess how long your master's list is."

Terence smiled a little at that. It was weak, but it was more than he'd gotten since he first told Gawain to leave.

"There is another list, for all of the deeds of my servants, my subjects, and my soldiers," Arthur continued. "If the list under any particular name becomes lengthy, I know a promotion or a reward is in order. I don't forget _anything _from these two lists. My pride in my people will not allow me to forget the one, and my love for my knights will not allow me to forget the other. I believe you were there when I told Gawain I love my knights as my own children." He chuckled, his voice soft. "You always seem to be around, somehow. Don't you?"

"Sire?" Terence asked. It was the first word he'd spoken since Arthur opened the door, and he still sounded tense.

Arthur chose to ignore it for the time being. "There is another list, sort of halfway between the other two, for the squires of Camelot. I do forget things on this list, and often, because it is always changing. Squires come and go. Squires have one knight one week and another knight the next. Knights trade squires, or send their squires away for more instruction. Squires have knights, squires don't have knights. The permanent ones are easier to remember. Generally squires will approach me for a knighthood before the list under their names gets to be too lengthy."

He looked fully at Terence, trapping him with his eyes. "But sometime over the course of the last few years, I moved _your _name to my list of knights instead. Without thinking about it. In fact, I only just realized the move a few hours ago."

The squire in question blushed, seeing where this conversation was about to go.

The king leaned forward even more, his voice soft. "You returned to me a stolen ring and consequently ended a war that could have crippled my kingdom for months, if not years, before it had a chance to truly begin. I owe you my life for breaking whatever spell was sapping my strength shortly after that war. And don't try to tell me you didn't. I saw you. In my dreams. And you helped Gawain lead a charge against the false Emperor of Rome, despite having been up nearly all the night before tending to Gawain's wounds."

Terence's blush darkened, but he said nothing.

"Gawain has me, privately, of some of your other deeds. How you led him through a lake filled with poison eels. You defended a town, your injured master, and the Lady Eileen from a herd of boars, with a bit of fighting that Gawain called _magnificent _I might add_, _and were wounded in that fight. You _willingly jousted against Sir Lancelot, _despite being no jouster yourself, and won. And when you did, you gave me back my queen."

His eyes were sparkling as Terence squirmed under his gaze. He sighed before continuing. "Those are the things I know for sure, although I may not be able to prove them…and may not want to. There are other things I suspect. I suspect you were involved with the Gareth-Kitchen-Knave plot and had a much larger part in all of Gawain's adventures and aided Lady Sarah's rescue of Guinevere, meaning I owe you my queen twice and have never recognized you for any of it. So tell me, _Squire _Terence." He leaned back and crossed his arms over his chest, frowning. His voice was thicker now, with a note of displeasure—although it sounded as if it was _himself _he was less than happy with.

"Give me _one good reason _why I shouldn't knight you, right here and right now, because this does _not _sit well with me."

Terence had turned to stare out a window during the catalogue of good deeds. Now he swallowed. He looked at Arthur, then down at the table, as if unwilling to meet the king's eyes. "Because…" He swallowed again. "Because I…I don't…because…" He fell silent. He snorted softly at himself, chuckled a little, and shook his head. "Because…I've already been knighted."

Arthur's eyebrows shot up. _That _was news if ever there was such a thing. "What, by Gawain? Why wouldn't he tell us?"

"…No, not by Gawain. By…by my father."

Oh. _Oh. _"…Your _faery _father." _Oh, oh, oh. _

"Yes…in a…in a different country."

"…Like when Parsifal wrestled Gawain, '…in a...different…country?'" he said, trying to imitate the hesitation and inflection he could hear in the words of many of his subjects when they spoke of "different countries." The same hesitation and inflection he was hearing now…

Terence nodded. "The same…country, actually. Mostly."

Arthur frowned, then twitched as the realization fell heavily upon him "You're not talking about an actual country, are you? This is something like when Merlin went home."

The squire-knight hesitated yet again before nodding. "Yes, sire, the very same. It's Avalon, the Other World."

There was a long silence as Terence fiddled with the hem of his tunic and Arthur just stared, trying to process it all. "…So, you see," Terence said at last. "I'm not entirely sure how these…things…are supposed to cross over into the World of Men, or if they should at all…and even if they did…sire, I still hear people say they don't believe in faeries. If I had to explain it all, admit that I'd been hiding all these years, even in the smallest or simplest ways…I have no idea how people would react, and my place is here, sire…I don't want to be avoided or…or hunted or…"

"I could knight you here, for this world," Arthur said. "That way we wouldn't have to tell anyone anything."

Terence shook his head. "You'd have to give them a reason, a good, recent reason and there are none. None that wouldn't take just as much stumbling explanation as the truth. And it would make things harder."

"Make what harder?"

There was that hesitation again. "My father is…an important person in our world—the other world, I mean. Avalon. I have…duties, because of him, both here and there. And while I am no great secret, we do try to limit the connections that can be followed from Sir Gawain's Squire to…him. It's easy, now. Servants get overlooked. And underestimated. And ignored."

Arthur scoffed. "And beaten, and under appreciated, and mistreated."

"Not by Gawain, and not in Camelot."

"And when Gawain isn't around, and you're far from here?"

Terence shrugged. "I don't mind. It's a decent price to pay for a bit of privacy."

Arthur sighed. "Can't you tell me any more than that?"

"I want to," Terence began, looking Arthur in the eye again. "But I can't. Or shouldn't. Gawain has…connections…to Father as well, and…well…Gawain and I have had…attempts."

"Of what?" Arthur asked, his voice going sharp, his gaze piercing.

The squire winced. "Assassination, kidnappings, misdirections, corruptions. The more people _here _that learn who I am _there, _the more my father's enemies learn it, too. Not because the humans tell. It's just the nature of the knowledge and the way of things. Every time someone we trust learns everything, Gawain and I have to go on guard, in case someone _else _has heard it, too. It's a secret because it keeps us out of danger."

"And if I make you a knight, you'll be pushed to the foreground, easier to notice," Arthur said, nodding.

"Even as a small, unimportant, tourney-type knight, I'll be getting over twice the attention as now. Those connections would be easier to make. It's safer for everyone if I'm just a squire."

Several moments passed before Arthur stood again. Terence stood with him. "This still doesn't sit well with me," the king admitted with a small frown.

Terence met Arthur's discontented gaze and _beamed. _"Sire, your private recognition is worth more to me than the highest of public praises. Be happy knowing that I am overjoyed to bask in your thanks alone."

Arthur smiled, eyes softening. He raised a hand and cupped it around the back of Terence's neck, squeezing gently. He dropped his arm and pressed a royal kiss to Terence's forehead. "Then thank you, thank you, and thank you again, Squire Terence. For everything you've ever done."

"My service is always yours." Terence bowed, partially and from the waist, then flinched. He really was going to have to stop doing that.

Arthur returned the bow with both eyebrows raised. He headed for the door and stopped with his hand on the knob. "Terence," he said, cautiously, turning to face the squire again. "…You're not _just_ a knight in the Other World, are you?"

"…No," the squire admitted, blushing again.

"…I thought not," Arthur said, and left.

He nearly ran into Gawain, who was pacing in the corridor outside. He nodded his farewells to the knight, who was almost too busy rushing to get back in to nod back. "What the devil was that about?" he heard Gawain say as the door shut behind him.

King Arthur chuckled and walked away, leaving the two Other-Worlders to their business.


	13. Due Knowledge: Knight of the Island

**Sorry this took so long. This chapter was annoying, and I'm putting it up in two parts, because it's kind of large-ish. So, nerve-wrecking part one, and a title so obscure it's possible even you forgot about it!  
><strong>

* * *

><p><em>I should have known better, really,<em> Arthur thought with a sigh. Well, perhaps that wasn't quite fair. He really had no idea the feast would be that boring, but if he had, he would have told Gawain to stay in his room—the man seemed to attract trouble. The trick was that Kai always managed to stay decently close and handy for conversation, and tonight Kai was three seats down with Conniore and he was sandwiched between Griflet and Guinevere, and neither of them were particularly stimulating company at a full banquet. Because between Kai and the odd sympathetic dignitary, the king rarely got bored at these things, but when he did and Gawain was present, things had a tendency to go wrong. Hart-and-hound, war-with-Rome, giant-green-knight wrong. When he first felt the tendrils of tedium, he shot his nephew an apprehensive look (which Gawain saw and looked hilariously puzzled at) and began watching the doors to the banquet rooms.

He was not disappointed now, as his sigh was drowned out by the banging of the doors and the startled gasps of men and women alike as a fully armed and very angry-looking man threw off the guards failing to restrain him and marched in like he owned the place. He stood to greet the visitor, wondering if this was to be the test-of-courage sort of intrusion or the Camelot-is-mine-now sort. "Welcome to court, sir. I'm afraid you've walked into the middle of our meal already. You are free to join us, or wait outside until we are finished…"

The knight (Arthur assumed he was a knight, anyway; why else would he be wearing armor?) surveyed the court with a look of contempt and shook his head at the king's words. "_This _is the mighty court of Camelot? _These _are the fabled Knights of the Round Table? I came here expecting to find a troupe of valiant warriors and instead find a string of lay-abouts filling their faces!"

The king bit back another sigh. "I did just mention something about a feast, did I not? If you'd care to pull up a seat—"

"I did not care to eat the table scraps of so-called heroes!" the man snapped. "I came to see if they were worth their mettle, but I can tell there isn't one of them here even half-worthy of the reputation of the _least _of them."

"My men are the Knights of the _Round _Table. There is no _least _of them," Arthur said, voice suddenly much colder and more formal. No one insulted his men like that and got away with it. Not if he had anything to do with it.

The stranger spat on the floor. "Whatever you like. Bare-faced boys and popinjays. I'm not surprised the stories are false, but I am surprised one of the lot actually managed to kill my brother."

Ah. Challenge, then. "I apologize for the death of your brother," he said over the murmurs that had started among the feasters. "And I would be perfectly willing to discuss this with you away from the others—no reason to stop a banquet that's half-over. The food would spoil."

Then the man chuckled and lifted a hand in a sort of mockery of one of Merlin's old wards against evil, and Arthur's blood ran cold. There was more to this than met the eye. "Oh, you have much more to worry about than a spoiled meal, King Arthur. I am Mendelen, and I am more than just a knight. I have a contingent of men on the hill outside the city, and one of my men is a sorcerer currently using his magic to monitor me. If anything happens to me, he will know and take action. I tell you this because you may be inclined to imprison me when I tell you what _else _is being held on that hill."

There was no way on earth this line of conversation could end well. Arthur braced himself, quieted the increasing murmurs with a raised hand, and nodded to the man. "Well? What else _is _being held?"

A wicked smile appeared on Mendelen's face. "I believe your banquet is only half-over because of a late start? A sudden and uncharacteristic shortness of staff in the kitchens when a group of maids went missing? And perhaps a couple of ladies have been reported unusually absent from your number as well?"

The murmurs turned to whispers of outrage and fear, and the king's hand clenched as a wave of anger shook his frame. Right. Right. Not funny anymore. "Release my subjects," he ordered, quiet and menacing.

"Gladly. When I get what I want."

"And what is it that you want?"

"A fight. A duel, a trial-by-battle, single combat. Whatever you want to call it. I want a fair shot at killing the man who killed my brother."

His fist clenched again, and he forced himself to continue speaking in a civil tone when all he wanted to do was run the man through. "I cannot ask that of any of my knights."

"The lives of fifteen women say otherwise."

He gritted his teeth and the whispers grew louder. "…Very well. If the knight consents, you will have your fight. Who killed your brother?"

"The Knight of the Island."

Dead silence, then a great, swelling roll of whispers as no one recognized the name and no one stepped forward. "I'm sorry, who?" Arthur asked.

"Don't play dumb with me, Arthur Pendragon. Bring forward the Knight of the Island."

And the whispers grew into a quiet thrum of scandal and conversation as a single knight stood from the table. Arthur closed his eyes and suppressed a groan, his earlier thoughts of keeping a certain nephew of his away from all celebrations returning as everyone looked at Gawain. These things nearly always seemed to center on Gawain. He opened his eyes again as the knight began to speak.

"We're not, as you call it, 'playing dumb,'" Gawain said, a muscle in his neck jumping in a way that told Arthur he was just as incensed about the hostage situation as the king himself was—but there was something else, too, a kind of worry more desperate than that of a soldier whose home was at risk. "Who is this 'Knight of the Island?' Has anyone ever heard of him?" Several people shook their heads. "No? Perhaps he doesn't even exist. Perhaps you fear the _real _knights of the Round Table and have invented this man as an excuse to make a scene."

Mendelen snorted. "I'm not afraid."

"Fight me instead, then."

"Who are you?"

"Sir Gawain."

The evil man grinned. "Nice try, Sir Gawain, but the knight does exist. In fact, I think you know who he is. I recall a story where you saw him. Fought him, perhaps? You know him."

Gawain's face was grim. "…Yes, I know him." The ambient conversation spiked at the words, but Gawain shook his head. "You have insulted the Knights of the Round Table and threatened the citizens of Camelot. But you have called out the Knight of the Island, who is _not _of the Round Table. So I say again: fight _me _instead."

Mendelen shook his head. "I have no quarrel with you, Sir Gawain. I only want my revenge. I will fight the Knight of the Island, or I will fight none."

The red-headed knight's voice rose and echoed around the chamber, frustrated and angry. "Then you will fight none, because the Knight of the Island is _not here. _Let those poor women go and _get out._"

Arthur's apprehension grew with Gawain's volume. Gawain did not defend strangers like this. There was only one reason his nephew would be this adamant in a foreign knight's protection. He swallowed and looked to the shadows behind the knight.

For the second time that horrible evening, he was not disappointed. Terence's hands appeared on Gawain's shoulders, gently pushing his master back into the empty chair. "That's enough, Milord," he said, voice carrying despite the noise that only increased at the sight of a squire telling his master what to do. Terence ignored the crowd and made his way around the wide table toward the recreant. "How do you know this man killed your brother?" he asked as he walked.

The man tensed and turned a furious glare onto Terence. "And who are _you _to question me like this?"

He hesitated before answering, an act that only made Arthur's suspicions grow. "I am Sir Gawain's squire."

"And you expect me to answer you?"

"If you want answers yourself, then yes," Terence said, his voice mild but his hands shaking. He stopped and stood before the man, looking somehow powerful and very vulnerable at once. The tremor in his hands was the only indicator of any sort of discomfort at the situation. He was speaking like a lord. "Sir Mendelen, there are only two people in this room who have ever heard the name Knight of the Island before this day. Sir Gawain is one. I am the other."

That got the man's attention. "Well? I'm listening."

"Now, Sir Gawain would die before revealing the man to you," Terence said, shooting his master a fond look, "because he is a sentimental idiot who holds his friends in dangerously high esteem. I usually feel the same, but to the Knight of the Island, I hold no such loyalties." *

"Terence, _don't_," Gawain growled, starting to stand again.

Mendelen smiled, reaching for the purse at his belt. "All right, then, young whelp. How much do you want for a name and a location?"

He stopped when the squire laughed. "I have more loyalty than _that. _I cannot be _bought. _I propose something else."

"…Such as?"

"The Knight of the Island needs no prompting to fight you. Let the women go and I will tell you all."

Mendelen chuckled and shook his head. "No, I think not."

"Then do so anyway, and pass your challenge to me."

The murmurs stopped. Arthur's stomach jumped into his throat. Mendelen looked surprised, cocking his head toward the squire, a hand reaching for the hilt of his sword. "Excuse me?"

"You heard me." Terence stood up a little straighter. "You say you will fight none but the Knight of the Island, and I think that is a vanity. You clearly want to fight _someone, _and I don't see why some other man should take the fall. Let your hostages go and fight me, and I will give you the name, regardless of the outcome."

"_Terence,_" Gawain said again, panic flickering across his face.

"I have neither the time nor desire to kill you, boy," Mendelen said, turning away.

"You won't get the name any other way. Or are you afraid of me?"

"Hold your tongue."

"After all, if you can't kill a squire, what hope do you have against the Knight of the Island?"

"Shut up, squire."

"Vanity and cowardice. You may look like a man and dress like a knight, but I don't think you're any better than a dog—"

Mendelen roared with rage and whipped around, almost faster than the eye could follow, and within seconds he had backhanded Terence, _hard, _sending him sprawling across the floor, blood dripping from his mouth and nose, the man's sword resting on his collarbone. Gawain leapt the table, knocking a pitcher of wine into Tor's lap, but stopped cold at the sight of metal glinting at Terence's throat. Several knights—Kai, Bedivere, and a drenched Tor, notably—were also standing and ready to jump to the unarmed squire's aid, and many woman had screamed at the sudden movement, sure they were about to watch someone die.

Terence, on the other hand, was grinning. "I do believe you just issued me a challenge, Sir Mendelen. I accept."

The man's face twisted into a grotesque snarl, but he did step back and sheath his blade. "…Fine. If you are so eager to die, I will grant your wish. I'll be back tomorrow, at noon."

"And you'll let the women go free at dawn," the squire prompted, looking almost feral with blood dribbling down his chin. "I swear on my life I will tell you the knight's identity. You don't need the women anymore."

"Agreed," Mendelen said. "They'll be returned to you, alive and well, at dawn." He swept out of the room without another word, the doors banging shut behind him.

For a second, no one moved. Then the second passed, and Gawain was pulling Terence to his feet, a steadying arm on the squire's back. "If you'll excuse us, sire," he muttered to Arthur, heading for a side door without waiting for a response.

Arthur nodded and remained only just long enough to get everything under control again before following the motley pair—no one had really expected him to stay at the feast while Kai was there to take control and Gawain and Terence clearly needed him much more than the feast-goers. He followed them down a hallway and into a small, empty room. Arthur shut the door behind them and turned.

He was just in time to see Gawain, hands shaking even more than Terence's had been, spin the squire to face him. "What were you _thinking?_" he snapped, roughly grabbing Terence's shoulders. "Are you _trying_ to get yourself killed? _Why _didn't you _let me take him?_"

"Ei-Eileen," Terence stammered, trembling a little. "Eileen, she was due back tonight, she—"

"She wouldn't have been this close to Camelot yet. She's fine. She'll probably be back tomorrow, in fact. With luck, she may be able to see you die—"

"Gawain," Arthur interrupted. "You'll give him a headache, shaking him like that."

"Good Gog, lad, _why didn't you let me take him?" _

"He was after me anyway," Terence snapped, stepping out of arm's reach at last and holding a sleeve to his dripping nose. "I figured I may as well give him what he wanted."

"So you are," Arthur said, and both looked at him as if they'd only just noticed him there. "The Knight of the Island, I mean."

They looked at each other and seemed to wilt, all the tension draining out of them. "I am," Terence admitted. "Though I can't think of where he heard the phrase. That title's used so little, I forget it until someone points it out to me."

Gawain was a bit more under control now. He pulled a large handkerchief from his tunic and stepped forward to mop up some of the gore. "Yes, yes, shut up about the ridiculous number of titles you have. The entire side of your face is red, and it's not all blood, are you aware of that?"

"Very," Terence said, wincing away from his friend's hand.

Arthur paused. "_Did _you kill his brother?"

Terence shrugged, shouldering Gawain, who swatted the back of his head. "Who knows? Maybe. I've only assumed that particular role a handful of times. Once I killed a few knights in defense of a castle….uh…"

"You did sign that writ of execution," Gawain muttered. "Was that as the Island Knight?"

"I don't remember," Terence said, looking older than he had a right to. "Who knows? Maybe this man has only been led to believe the Knight of the Island killed his brother. Maybe someone figured out who the Knight of the Island was, or at the least, who he could be, but couldn't connect it any farther. Maybe he doesn't even have a brother, and this is an assassination attempt. It hardly matters now."

"Mmm," Gawain said with a slow nod. "The Knight of the Island, Champion of the Enchanter, Defender of England. Makes sense that he'd be found in Camelot, doesn't it?" Louder, then, "I think your lip has stopped now, but your nose is another story."

Arthur sighed and leaned against the wall, crossing his arms and staring at the ceiling. "Does he have a chance, Gawain?"

The knight stepped back and surveyed his somewhat battered squire. "…He looks younger than he is, and he's been my squire _and _the Knight of the Island for a long time. He's more experienced than most people think, and he's good with a sword. He'll surprise Mendelen in being able to put up a fight at all, and he can use that to his advantage."

Terence glanced down. "…He's _fast, _milord. Faster than I expected, and _I_ was _goading_ him."

"Yes, well, he'd _have _to be good to be cheeky enough to pull something like this off," Gawain said, then softened and glanced between Arthur and Terence. "You're good, too. There's a chance, there's always a chance."

Arthur nodded and turned to Terence. "You'll need armor."

"I'll get it. I'm certain Father knows about the fight already. He'll send it to me."

"And a sword," he added. "I want you to take Excalibur. It'll give you an edge."

"Sire, I couldn't—"

"Terence, my court will be in an uproar for this. A squire, fighting a knight? It's everything the Table is _against. _If I don't show my support to you in some ridiculously obvious way, people will be unhappy for _months. _Do me a favor and _take _the sword."

Terence smirked, then grimaced in pain. "Fine. Fine. Milord, are you _sure _Eileen—"

"She's fine, lad. And don't call me _milord_ if you're going to play knight-for-a-day. You set my teeth on edge when you mix our roles like that."

"One more thing," the king said, stepping toward the pair. "…The court's heard the title now. They'll have to be told _something._"

Gawain blinked, a light blush spreading across his face. "Huh," he said. "Hadn't thought of that."

"We'll tell them it's Sir Wozzell," Terence said, almost at once. "It's true enough, and as far as everyone knows, 'Sir Wozzell' is dead now, so it can hardly be double-checked. I can say I didn't tell him right off because he'd be so angry at being denied the chance to fight Sir Wozzell, the hostages would have been hurt."

"Very good," Arthur said with a nod. "But what are you going to tell _him?_"

Terence sighed, pressing the handkerchief closer to his nose. "…I don't know. I…I don't know."


	14. Due Knowledge: Knight of the Island II

**Happy Valentine's Day, everyone! I love Valentine's Day. Strange, because I'm perpetually single. I think it has something to do with being an incorrigible Romantic. I celebrate every year by eating chocolate and rereading an Arthurian story/book. Unfortunately, this year I have a date with Samuel Taylor Coleridge (thanks, Brit Lit II) and I haven't gotten to do that quite yet. Instead, I finished this! Although I'm a bit iffy on the ending. Not many ways to wrap this up. Meh. Anyway, happy Valentine's Day from me to you!**

* * *

><p>Arthur slipped into the tent at the end of the small arena closest to the castle, Excalibur at his side. He saw Gawain first, rubbing a cloth over bits of a plain but high-quality suit of armor. Terence stood across the way, holding the Lady Eileen in his arms. They were somber and silent; their eyes were closed, their foreheads resting against each other, Elieen's hands on Terence's shoulders, Terence's on her arms. He'd never believed the rumors about Gawain and Eileen, but this was a charming surprise…Arthur smiled fondly and gave them a moment longer before speaking.<p>

"…The hostages are well and resting at home," the king finally said, his voice filling the tent despite the soft volume and the noise outside. "Seven kitchen maids, four ladies-in-waiting, and four ladies of the court. No injuries, but they're a bit shaken up."

Terence sighed, and Eileen's fingers fisted the material of his tunic. He pressed a quick kiss to her forehead before tearing himself away and facing his masters. "I'm glad."

"You should be. You saved them," the king pointed out, which made the squire blush around the horrible red mark across the right side of his face.

"Here, lad," Gawain said, tapping the armor. "I think I'll be dressing you today."

Terence nodded and moved into a more open space while Eileen dipped a curtsey in Arthur's direction and stepped out of the tent. Gawain worked slowly, laboring over each fastening, making doubly and triply sure of each strap and plate, muttering advice and tactics under his breath. At last he stepped back to observe his handiwork. The armor fit Terence like a glove, heavy enough to provide protection, but light enough not to hinder movement any more than necessary. And even higher quality than Arthur had originally thought.

"Trebuchet's outdone himself," Gawain muttered, crossing his arms in approval, his thoughts mirroring Arthur's.

Terence smirked, despite his obvious nerves. "Robin said he complained when he found out he couldn't paint it, and was _spitting _mad when he had to paint over the Avalon crest on the shield. I think he's been working on a sort of rivery color he wants to try on me, but this is conspicuous enough for a squire, wouldn't you say?"

The knight grunted and reached for a strip of soft, unnaturally grey leather. "Seems he couldn't resist playing with the sword belt."

"Is that where the blue boots came from?" Arthur asked, an eyebrow raised.

Terence gave an awkward shrug. "Faery craftsmanship. All depends on the animal and the amount of work the tanner wants to put into a hide…"

"So we won't be seeing any explosion of unnatural colors at the court? Good. Would you do me the honor of finishing your dress, Sir Terence?"

The blush darkened. "Sire, you don't have to—"

"No, I don't. I just said it's an _honor_," Arthur said, taking the belted scabbard as Gawain offered it. He knelt and fastened it around Terence's waist before he could hear anymore protests. He stood again and drew Excalibur, resting it briefly on the half-faery's shoulder. "With my blessing," he mumbled before sliding the sword into the sheath at Terence's side.

"Thank you," he said with a deep breath, tapping the hilt of the sword. "It…it means a lot, sire."

Arthur smiled. "This is not the first time you've stepped into an arena, but it is the first time everyone watching has known it's you. A little over-acknowledgement is appropriate in these circumstances, I think."

A bell rang somewhere outside, making them all jump. "We'd better head out," Terence said, fear flicking through his eyes. "Milord, I…there are letters in my room. To Lorie, Father, Eileen. You. Just in case."

Gawain looked ill. "Noted."

The king took a step toward the tent flap to lead the two out. "I'm not…" came a small voice behind him, and he stopped and turned back around, Gawain turning with him. Terence blanched further under their attention and struggled a moment, looking down. A hollow smile, a nervous chuckle. "I'm not really…meant for these sorts of things, that's all," he began again, and it seemed he was trying to say more than that. "I don't…I'm not _special, _or magical, or particularly talented at fighting. I just…I blend in. I disappear. That's my gift. I was born for backgrounds." He looked up, smile twisting into grimace. "Was this a mistake?"

" 'Course it was," Gawain said, his voice unusually gruff. "You wouldn't be in the public eye if you'd let me take him." He sighed as his squire frowned with just his eyes, as if to say _don't be stupid. _"Yes, I know. I can't fight your battles for you. You're the Knight of the Island and more, milord, and Avalon's trust is never ill-placed."

"Neither is England's." Arthur fought to control his features. He was king. He had to remain impassive, even as his heart bled for his friends. "Come, Sir Terence. It's time to meet your enemy."

He spun around and began walking again, hearing a deep breath from behind him before the telling footsteps of his two most loyal subjects. He led the way toward the seated crowd—as many as what came for a tournament, to see this fight between master and servant. He heard Gawain and Terence drop away from him as Gawain steered them toward the arena rather than the stands. The crowd rose to its feet as Arthur climbed the steps and found his place beside a worried Guinevere. Raising a hand for silence, he looked down to the two armed figures below. "Sir Mendelen."

The knight on the right hand side stepped forward.

"And…Squire Terence."

Terence stepped away from Gawain's hand on his shoulder and moved to the center.

"Sir Mendelen has issued a challenge to you, Squire Terence," he began, keeping his voice level and calm. "He has kept his half of the challenge in returning his hostages to Camelot. Now you must keep your word and reveal the identity of the Knight of the Island. Under ordinary circumstances, the duels of Our laws fight to surrender. This is an exception. Circumstances of this fight dictate it will end only in the death of one of the champions." Out of the corner of his eye, he saw Eileen stand up and leave the stands, obviously not trusting herself to keep their secret under such conditions. He cleared his throat to cover the pause. "Do you understand the challenge, Sir Mendelen?"

"Yes," the blackguard called.

"Squire Terence?"

"Yes," came the answer, strong and clear and showing no sign of the weakness he'd shown in the tent.

"Very well. Shake hands and speak now," he said, watching as Terence extended his hand to his foe. His non-dominant hand, Arthur noticed. Mendelen took the offered hand and even from the stands, Arthur could see the squeezing the knight gave it. Terence didn't rise to the bait. He waited a few moments—when the knight's helmet went back in surprise, he knew Terence had told him what he needed to know. "Let the contest begin."

If Arthur hadn't given Terence Excalibur, he would have been dead in the first thirty seconds. The instant the last word escaped the king's mouth, Mendelen drew his sword and struck at the small gap in the squire's armor at the neck, all in one clean motion. Terence gave a shout of alarm barely heard over the roaring of the crowd at the injustice of the attack—their hands were still joined, and with the knight's death grip on his wrist, Terence could not dodge. He had already been reaching for Excalibur, thank goodness, and the faery sword practically leapt into his hand and out of its sheath to block the attack. The squire had tried to move back when the knight moved forward, but the two were still close enough that Excalibur grazed Mendelen's armor while being drawn. The knight released Terence and staggered back, surprised. A thin line of red pooled across his chest, but did not fall. The sword had done more than graze his armor—it had cut through the breastplate and grazed skin. First blood to Terence.

The knight roared in anger and darted forward again. Terence jumped out of the way of the first strike and barely parried the second. He had not been kidding about Mendelen's speed. The man moved like a viper. Mendelen attacked and Terence parried again, though the force of the blow drove the squire to his knees. He rolled out of the way of the next blow, and Arthur muttered a silent prayer of thanks for the faery blacksmith who had forged Terence's armor. It wasn't all metal, and it was flexible almost beyond belief. It may not hold up against a good, strong strike, but Terence could _move, _and that was what he needed.

He jumped to his feet and ducked a blow to the head, swinging Excalibur toward the knight's knees. Mendelen couldn't dodge or parry that, but the sword merely chipped his armor this time. The two straightened out and Mendelen struck again. Steel hit steel, sending sparks flying. Terence stopped trying to attack and took on a defensive stance. Arthur smiled despite himself, recognizing the shift and wondering if Gawain had taught Gaheris that or if Gaheris had taught Gawain.

Even defensively, Terence could barely keep up. Gawain had been right the night before when he said Mendelen had to be good, and by the tightness of some of his smaller movements, he was surprised that the fight had lasted that long. Terence was a good swordsman, of knight's standards, but Mendelen was better. Nowhere near as good as Gawain or Lancelot, perhaps, but a match for Tor or Ywain. Arthur chewed on the inside of his cheek as he watched the squire being slowly but steadily pushed back toward the arena walls.

It happened, as it was sure to. Terence took a step back to find there was nowhere to step to. He tried to dart to the right as the knight charged him again. Quick as a lightning bolt, Mendelen changed directions. His sword struck Terence's left calf hard enough to knock the squire to the ground. He went in for the killing blow, but Excalibur rose up to parry with little effort on Terence's part. He kicked at Mendelen's legs with his right foot and managed to force the knight to his knees. He used the small moment of peace to lever himself up by the wall and turn so he had room to move again.

Mendelen was up again in seconds, both hands on the hilt of his sword. Terence's chest heaved as he blocked the next series of strikes. Arthur's gaze sharpened on the squire after a few moments—was that a wobble he'd detected in the squire's left leg? It had seemed that the armor had taken the brunt of the blow and the calf was fine, but now he wasn't so sure. Terence blocked another strike, then another, and—there, his leg definitely quivered. Mendelen noticed, too. He changed his footing, feinted toward the squire's head, and struck out at his leg. Terence caught the feint, but not in time to do much more than move so the blow lost some power. The knight sent a lazy feint to Terence's chest and _kicked _the weakened calf instead, ignoring the roars and curses of the crowd. The leg didn't give, but it was a close thing.

Mendelen backed off a few paces, and Arthur caught a small tremor in his right arm. He was tiring, _finally _tiring. He had put all his energy into his fight, expecting an easy slaughter instead of the struggle of a knight. Terence _had _surprised him. If the knight grew tired, he may slow down. If he slowed down…the squire was nearly exhausted as well, but if the knight slowed down, it may level the field just enough.

Terence was limping ever so slightly now, and there was a slowly growing stain of red on his right shoulder where the knight must have slipped a blow without anyone noticing. Arthur watched in horror as a tiny spot of blood appeared on the squire's greaves as well. Mendelen's face was scratched, and the graze on his chest bled freely, but otherwise, he just looked tired. He readjusted his grip on his sword as Terence began circling around him. Circling. Arthur's head went up. His mind flew back to the incredible jousting match against Lancelot. Terence could see Mendelen was wearing down. His footing had changed. He was finished playing Gaheris. He was _thinking _now. The Knight of the Island was dangerous when thinking.

Not that Mendelen could see that—so fixed on killing the squire and being done with it, he had neglected to study his opponent. He had no _feel _for Terence. At least, not like Terence had for him.

The knight sprang forward, striking for Terence's chest. Terence jumped out of reach and used Excalibur to knock the point of the enemy sword into the dust. Then he darted forward and thrust an armored elbow into the face mask of Mendelen's helmet. A few laughs escaped the crowd as Mendelen shouted and the disorienting blow. He pulled back and swung wildly. Terence dodged with ease and attacked. Another thin line of red appeared, this time on the knight's side. Arthur smirked as the squire ducked and rolled away from the next attack. The smile vanished as Terence's leg trembled and buckled when he tried to rise again, and he barely managed to parry the next blow. The squire hopped up on one leg, easing his weight onto the injured left as best he could while blocking another strike. Mendelen's attacks were slowing. Terence pressed what little advantage he had, forcing the knight backwards even as he blocked several more increasingly clumsy attacks to his weak leg.

At last, Terence managed a blow to Mendelen's right arm. Excalibur cut through the metal as if it were butter. The knight shuddered and nearly dropped his sword in surprise and pain. Terence pushed forward, feinting high, knocking the sword out of his hands. Before anyone quite knew what was happening, the squire had pushed Excalibur through Mendelen's chest, right under his heart.

The crowd roared in triumph and jumped to its feet as Mendelen, scrambling at his wound, dropped to his knees. Terence pulled the blade free and stepped out of the knight's reach, just in case he went for his sword one more time. He needn't have worried. The knight pitched forward, writhed for a moment, and went still, his blood soaking the hard-packed dirt.

Terence staggered backward, shaking. Gawain, who had taken off at a sprint as soon as Mendelen hit the ground, wrapped an arm around his squire's waist just as the leg buckled completely. Gawain's eyes sought Arthur's in the stands. Arthur nodded and smiled as his nephew found him. Gawain grinned and nodded back, saying something in Terence's ear that was lost in the general din. The squire wrapped one arm around his master's shoulders and pulled his helmet off with the other, revealing an pale, sweaty, face. He answered whatever Gawain had said and the knight began helping him off the field. Arthur's smile broadened. The squire was using Gawain as a crutch more than anything, and while he flinched when Gawain brushed his injured shoulder, he did not pass out. He would be fine. For the hundredth time he wished he could knight Terence without putting him at risk, although it would be a nightmare trying to find an excuse _not _to knight Terence after this…

The smile remained as Gawain and Terence disappeared from view, and as he held up his hands to calm the assembly. The Knight of the Island had done his bit. Now it was for the King of England to do his, and give the great Sir Wozzel another laurel. "Friends, this is a glorious day!" he called once the roar of the crowd had died down some. "I know you are wondering about the name of the man this knave came here to challenge. Sir Gawain and Squire Terence were kind enough to reveal to me the Knight of the Island's identity before the battle began…"


	15. Due Knowledge: Island Prince

Arthur almost called to Morgan as she swept into Gawain's chambers right from the opposite direction as him, but before he could fully process that the enchantress was in Camelot again, she was behind the door, and already speaking before it could close. "Ah. The great hero of the hour. Still resting, your grace?"

_Your grace?_ Arthur thought as a pleasant "Hello, Lady Morgan," floated from inside the room before the door closed. The king hummed softly in thought before stepping up to the door. He had intended on personally congratulating the squire for the afternoon victory over Sir Mendelen and see the extent of his injuries. Morgan's sudden appearance was…puzzling. Intriguing, even. The King of England did not often have cause to listen in keyholes, but the enchantress and the title had captured his attention. And Terence and Gawain would never tell him if something was going on. At the very least, he'd be able to find out what Avalon thought of the Knight of the Island's actions yesterday. He leaned into the door, pressing his ear to the crack by the knob.

"…what did I tell you about trying to walk on that leg?" Lady Eileen's voice was muffled, but still audible through the thick wood and the tiny space. "Sit back down at once."

"I was only trying to manage a bow for the lady," Terence said. There was a note of tension under the amused tone in the squire's mild voice.

"What on earth for?" said Morgan. "I'm the one that ought to be bowing, particularly after this afternoon. Anyway, I've only come to see the damage myself. Your father and sister send their love."

There was a muffled sound Arthur couldn't quite make out. "Hey, didn't Lorie send me kisses, too?" Gawain asked, affronted.

Ah, so Lorie was Terence's sister. Arthur'd wondered about that the day before. Morgan spoke again, voice dry. "If she did she sent them in this letter, which is nice, as I am not going to kiss you as your wife does." Laughter. Arthur's jaw dropped. Gawain was _married. _To Terence's _sister. _

"So how is that leg?" Morgan asked, followed by a muffled yelp—Arthur assumed the enchantress had just patted said leg. It seemed like a Morganesque thing to do.

"Ugly, painful bruises and a deep cut, mostly." Gawain. "Might be a sprain or a muscle strain somewhere in there. And the shoulder was just superficial, if you're worried about that."

"Not really. Where's the armor? I need to take it back with me."

"Leaving soon?" said Eileen.

"Mmm, it's for the best. Ganscotter already knows most of the details about the fight, but he said he'd prefer to hear that his son would live from one who had seen him themselves." Ganscotter, Terence's father's name was Ganscotter. Why did that name sound so familiar? "And Trebuchet wants his armor back, so it can be cleaned, repaired, and finished without anyone…unsavory getting a hold of Terence's blood."

"You mean you're not unsavory?" Terence asked, after a edgy silence.

"No. I'm a bit cruel, perhaps, but I'm not cruel or imbecilic enough to sell Terence out to an Unseelie blood witch."

"That would be a bit bad, yes," Terence added.

"Bad? The Unseelie Court with any sort of access to the Knight of the Island, the Duke of Avalon, the greatest faery prince of our time, the only son of Ganscotter the Enchanter?" Morgan laughed. "England and Avalon would both fall in days."

"I am _not _the greatest!"

"You're going to give me nightmares," Gawain rumbled.

Arthur, dumbfounded, froze in place with his ear to the door, eyes popping, one hand over his mouth. He had the _Duke of Avalon _working as a _squire. _The _greatest faery prince of our time _spent his days scrubbing armor and topping off wineglasses?

He missed the next several sentences, still immobile with shock, struggling to wrap his mind around this new, incredible information. Only when he heard the chink of metal plates hitting each other did he return to his senses enough to hear, "Right, so I'll leave you to your resting and your letter—"

The door swung open and Arthur pitched forward almost on top of Morgan le Fay as she stepped into him. "Arthur!" she called at the same time the three behind her yelled "Sire!" with various degrees of alarm.

The king stumbled backwards and stared at the ground. "S-sorry," he muttered, glancing up at Terence and quickly turning his attention back to Morgan. "Sorry, Lady Morgan, let me help you with that—" he reached down for the sack she'd dropped at the crash. When he handed it back to her, he caught all four staring at him with stunned, pale faces—Terence's paler than any of them. Heat rushed to his own face. "I, er, only came in to see how you were doing. Obviously you're fine, so I'm just going to…go. Yes. I'm going."

Terence recovered enough to raise that _eyebrow_—the submissive-passive-assertive eyebrow that made _so much more sense now_—and Morgan looked like she was trying very hard not to laugh as Arthur nodded to Gawain and Eileen. He started to nod to Terence, and froze again when it started to turn into a royal bow, opting instead to turn on his heels. He walked down the corridor away from Gawain's chambers as fast as decorum would allow, his blush darkening at the explosion of anxious laughter that followed him.

He resolved to forget the incident as soon as possible.

* * *

><p><strong>And there's the end of the "Due Knowledge" arc. Hope you've enjoyed it, and don't forget to review! Seriously, though. Review. Tell me you liked it, tell me you hated it, send me a prompt, tell me how the weather is in your area, I don't care. I like to know people are reading these things. Love you all!<strong>


	16. The Calm Before the Storm

**Bit of Terence/Eileen fluff, because Thursday was Valentine's Day and there wasn't much romance involved in that day's update. **

**WARNING! Mild spoilers for The Squire's Quest, because this takes place a week or so later. Nothing all that spoilery-safe to read if you haven't read it yet. **

* * *

><p>Eileen looked up from her embroidery and frowned. Terence hadn't moved from the window in nearly two hours, judging by the candle on the table, and she was beginning to grow concerned. He was worried, she knew that—they were all anxious about what would happen know that Mordred was who-knew-where with his mother, plotting who-knew-what. The problem was the Terence seemed to be more worried than anyone else. It hurt to see her husband brooding like that.<p>

At last she lost patience and put down her needlework. She rose from her chair, stretched luxuriously, and wandered over to the window. "Terence, I want to dance."

He tore his gaze from the rain outside to turn to her with a hollow half-smile. "I'm…sorry? I'm not sure when the next ball will be—"

"I want to dance _now,_" she said, grabbing his hand. "Dance with me."

"There's no music." He looked interested now, but not comforted at all. Eileen rolled her eyes and tugged on his arm. It took a minute of insistent pulling to get him standing.

"I don't care. Let's go."

The corners of Terence's mouth rose higher. "We aren't dancing here?"

"No. Come on." Still clinging to his hand, she more or less dragged him out of her chambers and down one corridor, then another, and a flight of stairs. He followed without argument, the smile falling from his face soon after leaving the room. She led him down another flight of stairs, ducking into a smaller hall when they met with a large crowd heading for dinner. Through one door, up another corridor, down more stairs and into an antechamber that led to—

Terence stopped suddenly and no amount of pulling would move him. "Eileen, dear, you do realize it's _raining, _don't you?" It wasn't hard to forget, with the rhythmic sound of thunder and rain hitting the ground coming from just outside the door to the inner courtyard.

She smirked at him. "Aww, the great big Duke of Avalon isn't afraid of a little water, is he?"

"Of course not. It's just not very pleasant when it falls out of the sky instead of sitting in the river where it belongs."

Eileen pouted, making eyes at him. "_Terence,_ I want to _dance." _

"What's stopping you?"

"_You, _at the moment. Just _come on._" She pulled on his arm again, and this time he walked with her. She let go of him just long enough to open the heavy door before taking his hand back. He hesitated before following her, but she managed to coax him a dozen or so paces into the courtyard. The rain was cold and hard, and their clothes would doubtless be soaked in just a few minutes, but Eileen didn't care; she was wearing a dark grey dress that could stand a good washing anyway, and Terence's tunic was blue. She turned back to face him, still gripping his hand. With a little space between them, it was easier to move.

"Well?" Terence asked, having to speak up over the rain.

She smiled and raised their joined hands over her head, spinning on his finger. She stepped out of the pirouette and raised her free hand as gracefully as she could managed, then spun the other direction. She swapped hands with him and picked up the hem of her already muddy dress, moving behind him, making him twist his arm to keep hold of her hand. In front of him again, she spun under his arm one last time before releasing his hand and curtsying, pressing her palm to his.

It was a little like dancing with a tree, moving around a man who refused to move an inch. She sighed sharply and released him, raking her hand through her hair—the rain was doing nothing for the twist she'd thrown together that morning. She was about give up and head back inside when she felt a strong hand snake its way around her wrist. It was a start, anyway. She turned back to him, palms pressing again, and watched him give a stiff bow. She curtsied again, and this time they circled together.

They were attempting to do a dance usually done with a minimum of four people. It was tricky at first, but Terence didn't seem to want to do anything else. They curtsied and bowed and did their steps, twisting together and fumbling around the sections done by the other couple until Eileen lost her patience again and grabbed his hand. She twirled under his arm and pulled back only to twist back around and catch his other hand. His lips twitched as he pulled away and bowed again before doing his bit of the step and coming back to her. She clapped her hands and let him circle.

It was Terence who lost patience the next time, realizing that the chill of the rain faded with movement. He wrapped his arms around her waist and lifted her into the air, spinning her once. When she landed she grabbed hand and hem and let him lead her into a new dance. They spun, skipped, and stepped around the courtyard in wide, easy circles. Their wet hands slipped against each other every time they touched, and they stepped harder through quickly-deepening puddles, not-so-accidently kicking muddy water on each other. When Eileen slipped and fell into a puddle, Terence laughed, long and hard, the sound vanishing in a clap of thunder, before he pulled her to her feet.

Eileen beamed at the familiar and welcome sight of her husband's smile. Using his own weight against him as he levered her up, she twisted them around and pushed him into the stone wall of the castle, pinning him in place with her hands on his shoulders. She leaned forward and kissed him soundly, soaking hair swinging up and sticking to his face with the sudden motion. She pulled back and he smirked, twisting them around so she was the one pinned, kissing her back.

"Feel any better now?" she asked when he drew away, touching his chin with a soft finger.

He hummed, smile widening. "I love you, Eileen."

"I know. I love you, too," she answered, pushing him away. "Now let's go find a fire before we catch colds and die."

"That would be a bit anticlimactic," he joked. "The door seems far away and it's still cold…race you?"

She took off running in a dead sprint in answer. He laughed again and charged after her. Thunder rolled once more and the rain began to ease as the soaked, laughing couple splashed their way inside and shut the door behind him, Terence's yells for a rematch echoing down the empty corridor.


	17. Wildflower Promises

**WARNINGS WARNINGS WARNINGS**

**SPOILERS AHEAD**

**SPOILERS AHEAD **

**AND SADNESS AND HEADCANON AND SADNESS.**

**I've been sitting on a half-finished different-premise version of this for a YEAR and decided today to man up and finish it. Seriously, this one I recommend you skip if you haven't read book ten, or if you're feeling tender today. Major character death(s), major/minor spoilers for LoK, minor original character because I needed a POV, depressing concepts. Apparently I'm in a whumpy mood, and when I say whumpy I mean characters and emotions. **

* * *

><p>A great while ago, in a land called England, there was a valley, surrounded by hills. On one of these hills was an army, injured and weary and well-worn in recent battles. The army loved its king to the bitter end, however, and its weariness did not stop it from being ready to fight at an instant's notice. The army had been fighting for a very long time—forever, it seemed like, though it couldn't have been that long. It could remember days of questing and tournaments. Adventure and nobility. Feasting and boredom. It would even take a lifetime of that boredom if only it could be rid of the heartache that had plagued it for the last year.<p>

One of the fighters was antsy, whittling a stick next to a campfire, remembering days when he dulled his blade on trees in anticipation of a day like this.

One of the fighters was changing the bandage on his wound. He sighed when he had finished and fed his dear friend lioness the scraps of his dinner.

One fighter dozed in his tent dreaming of his lady love—a woman with cheeks as white as snow and lips as red as drops of blood.

One fighter sat in a chair in the tent of the king, his finger tapping on his leg as he watched the king pace the ground. He knew the king was trying not to cry. It seemed the king spent most of his private time trying not to cry now.

Another fighter lay close to death on a pallet inside another tent. His best friend sat nearby, rubbing at the dark circles under his old-young eyes. This man appeared to be relaxed, but closer examination revealed tension in every muscle. His head cocked in different directions every once in a while, as though he were listening to something. One could almost think he could hear the enemy marching toward them. Who knows? Maybe he could.

On another hill, on the other side of the valley, another army prepared for war. This army was much larger than the first, but it did not appear to be nearly as organized. Its leader wore a crown and called himself a king. He held himself like a king. He even looked a little like the king from the other hill. He strode among his men, feigning confidence, and all the while different scenarios ran through his head. Things that could go right, things that could go wrong. He was nothing if not a good general. He growled orders and reprimands to the most disorderly of his men, but seemed for the most part lost in his own thoughts.

There was a giant make-shift cage in the middle of this encampment. In the cage were dozens of men and women, cowering in the center, crying, pleading, cursing their captors. They too remembered days of feasting and tournaments and nobility. They remembered, and it hurt.

One woman did not cry or plead. She sat in silence, staring ahead, her mouth set into a defiant little line. Several of the younger ladies had gathered around her, clutching what was left of her gown. She had her arms around them, as many of them as she could reach. She did not curse at the men who held her captive. She sat and sent her prayers out for a king she had learned to love.

On another hill, in between the two, another army prepared for war. This army was much, much smaller than either of the others. In fact, this army held only perhaps a dozen people. And many of the members of this army could hardly be called people at all. One of them had twelve fingers and sixteen toes; another had not a single hair on his entire body. Another had only smooth, unmarked skin where he should have had eyes. Another appeared to be part dog. They mostly appeared to be men, although there were a few women and one you just couldn't tell. They didn't appear to have a leader, but in a group of ten to twelve, perhaps none was needed.

This army seemed to be preparing for a very different kind of war. Some of the fighters were sharpening daggers. Others were mixing lotions and salves. One was sitting at the edge of the hill, staring into the valley below with a look of such concentration one would think he was memorizing the place. Another was mending a pair of pointed shoes.

All of these fighters, like the first army, were silent—all, that is, except two. In a tent in the center of the hill, two figures exchanged quiet conversation—and even a complete stranger could tell at a glance that there was something a little different one of them. The first man was short and green with a pointed little beard. The other man, the one who didn't seem to belong was taller, but not tall, younger than the first, and had rather shocking eyes. Both sat together, fixing the holes in an ornate bit of chainmail.

"I know you're upset," the taller man muttered in a far Northern accent, not looking at his companion. "About the wildflowers."

The green imp sighed and shook his head. "It was worth a try, wasn't it?"

"Not really, no. It was obvious he'd say no. I heard the stories. He's refused to come home to safety since the first offer... Did you try it because Ganscotter asked, or because you're afraid for him?"

"Both." They worked silently for a moment. "Are you nervous?"

He paused and swallowed before continuing his work. "I suppose I'd be lying if I said no."

The other glanced up, then back down. "…You have to remember that war is like a river," he said, fitting together another chain. "There are calm spots and rough spots, good places to jump in and good places to pull out, deeps and shallows. Sometimes it branches into two or three rivers and sometimes two or three become one. You have to treat war like it's water. Fight when it fights you, pull back when it allows you to. Do not force the battle. Let things take their course."

"This isn't my first war, Robin," he said with a little scoff.

"No," Robin corrected himself, "but it is your first Battle Invisible. It's a bit different. You'll have to watch extra close to what you're doing. Don't want to hit one of Arthur's knights by mistake."

"I understand."

There was another long period of silence before Robin spoke again. "…Do you ever regret it? Joining with Avalon?"

He bit his lip. "Do you?"

"No," Robin said quickly. "But I was born here. Turning to the Unseelie was never a real choice for me. You, on the other hand, you're from another World."

He shrugged. "I know we haven't always gotten along, but our loyalty has always been unofficially Avalon's," he said. "It wasn't all that hard a choice to make, after Morgause tried to close the gates. It wasn't just Avalon she affected. We nearly went crazy when our few gates started shutting down. And now, that I've gotten to know the people here, the culture…I was always willing to fight, even die, for Avalon. Now I'm ready to fight for…for the rest of it, too."

Robin's lips twitched, but he did not smile. "For wildflowers? "

"For wildflowers," he said, nodding.

The tent flap opened and something stuck its furry head inside. "Ganscotter's here, Robin, Aelfrig."

"Thank you, Daniel," Robin said as the two rose from their work. They followed the furry man outside.

A tall, kingly newcomer who could only have been Ganscotter was standing nearby. The men and women and thing gathered around him, standing tense and battle-ready. Ganscotter smiled at them, but it did not meet his eyes. Smiles rarely met anyone's eyes in recent days. "Friends," he said, not bothering to raise his voice. "I have come to give you your last orders and express my eternal gratitude for the risks you have chosen to take in coming here. You did not have to do this, and you still don't. Anyone who wishes to leave with me is free to do so." He paused and let his loving gaze sweep over the crowd.

"You have chosen to remain on earth only long enough to fight the Battle Invisible for Arthur and for Terence," he continued, his voice softening a bit on the second name. "The choice is admirable, and you are to be commended. At the end of your fight, be it by your death or the close of the battle, go to the stream just to the north of here. You can follow it all the way down to the sea. I will be able to widen a gate there for a short amount of time."

Ganscotter waited until everyone had nodded their understanding and gone back to their duties before fixing his gaze upon Robin and his taller friend. "Goodfellow," he said, steering the two back into the tent, sounding suddenly much more solemn than before. "…Are you sure you want to do this? I appreciate it, but you don't have to—"

"I stand firm," Robin said. He tried to smile, but his muscles were too tense. "We promised."

"He promised," Aelfrig reminded him, speaking softly.

The imp shook his head at his companion. "You're young, little one. You don't understand, and I pray you never will."

Ganscotter looked sorrowful at those words_, _but he straightened his spine and smiled tenderly down at the brilliant-eyed elf. "Speaking of you, Aelfrig, you are free to go, if you'd like. I've already sent Dikotone home. Yggdrasil and Elysium have been more than generous friends to us, but there is no need for you to fall into the danger of being locked in England."

"Arthur bypasses mere mythology," the young elf said, nose wrinkling. "The Britons' Once and Future King affects everyone, and besides, Avalon was not the only Other World Morgause and her spawn ever threatened. I know the nymph feels the same, and if it weren't for the geography, she'd still be here."

"But the outcome of the war is practically set," the Enchanter said. "Morgause is gone and Mordred will be dead before sunrise, or shortly after. Avalon's duke is nothing to you. We will not think ill of you if you chose to go home—"

The elf held up his hand. "Avalon was there for Elysium when Greece bled into Rome and again when Rome collapsed, and Avalon was there for Yggdrasil when Balder fell. If you can hold our hands while our gates closed, I think it's only right we be there to hold yours. Other-Worlders do not forget their own."

"Your words, my lord," Robin said with a soft chuckle, cheeks flushing in pride. "I do believe you've been properly _told._"

The Enchanter studied the dying grass beneath his feet in an effort to hide the tear threatening to fall. "…Thank you, child," he said. "It means more to me than you know. I have to go now. Much to prepare before battle's begun." He glanced to Robin, hesitant. "…Robin…I shouldn't have asked…"

"I promised." The imp's voice was firm and determined. "Don't worry about me—or you, for that matter. He'll be with you soon. Broken hearts heal."

"Never the same shape as before," Ganscotter whispered before turning away and leaving the tent.

Aelfrig looked at the imp with a tilted head, confused. "What was _that _about?"

"Didn't you know?" Robin asked, sounding impossibly sad. "The Duke of Avalon, the man he asked me to talk to? It's his son."

Eyebrows shot up as the elf realized what that meant. "And he's just going to _let _all this happen?"

"Terence made his choice. Now Ganscotter doesn't have one." He added the final link to the armor and held it up.

Shocked, Aelfrig took a tiny step back, shaking his head. "And now you're going to step onto the battlefield and _watch?_"

Robin sighed and looked down. "You can dream all kinds of beautiful things for your friends when they are young. You can have a mountain of hopes and wishes. Eventually they either get those dreams or you have to give them up, one by one, until the only wish left for them is a single moment of peace before terror, blood, and death. And then you'll do _anything _to make it happen, because you can't stand the thought of your closest friends dying alone. I have served Avalon since I was a child, and if this is the only thing I can give my duke now, then I'll do it. His last sight _should_ be of something beautiful."

"Because you promised?

He hesitated, then nodded. "Yes. I promised. I always remember my promises. Wildflowers."

"Wildflowers," the elf echoed, but he didn't sound entirely convinced.

* * *

><p>Robin was right; the Battle Invisible was like nothing Aelfrig had ever been a part of before. The Alfheimer was from a mythology born of war, and this brutal fight was nothing new, but a fight with rules was something else entirely. He could not be seen, and could not attack directly. Armed with a dagger instead of his usual ax, he was tasked with snapping bowstrings and stabbing ankles in order to aid Arthur's forces. He quickly lost Robin in the chaos and fended for himself, wishing this were Yggdrasil where a minor god could lead a full battalion on these men rather than the dozen-odd band of faeries.<p>

After dawn, he found Robin again, dripping blood not his own, wearing a wicked smile. He grinned back, then felt his stomach plummet as a look of horror crossed the imp's face. "Arthur!" he shouted, pointing behind Aelfrig's back. The elf turned, stunned, as the King of England collapsed beside the sword he'd just stuck into the ground.

The faery darted toward the king when Aelfrig let out a wordless cry and pointed at the Duke of Avalon, who'd fallen face first to the ground, blood flowing freely from a wound in his back. The green imp turned white and practically _flew _to the faery, Aelfrig close behind. "But Robin, Arthur—"

"I _promised," _Robin spat over the ebbing sounds of battle, falling to his knees beside the faery prince's head. Aelfrig knelt on the duke's other side and gently touched Terence's wound. It was useless. Robin folded his hands on the ground in front of the dying knight's eyes. When he took his hands away a tiny, impossible blue flower, a Periwinkle, sprang up in the middle of the carnage.

The man's fingers twitched as if to reach for the blossom. "…**I should show you to Robin**," he muttered, wheezing out the words with his final breath. His eyes closed and his fingers went slack.

Aelfrig clapped a hand over his mouth, eyes wide. He took a deep breath before dropping the trembling hand. "Robin—Robin, I—"

"I must to the king," the imp said in a voice as dead as the man before him, rising to his feet.

"But—Robin—"

"I must go to the king," he snapped. "We _can't _let Arthur die. It's my job to put him to sleep. Terence is _fine. _He's in Avalon now, or on his way."

The imp ran toward the king, leaving Aelfrig behind. The elf rested his hand on the knight's forehead. The body was still warm. "You may be fine," he whispered, "but he still watched you die. I hope you know that, someday." He brushed the bangs out of Terence's face and stood, heading for Robin and Arthur.

And even though the young elf had become good friends with Robin over the past few months, he could not blame the prince for causing Robin such pain. From the stories he'd heard, Terence had had his own wildflower promises to keep.

* * *

><p><em>"Twenty years ago I decided I would die for you. I may not be able to do that tomorrow, but if I can't, I can at least die beside you." -Terence, The Legend of the King, page 247<em>

_"Anything at all over those western hills?" _  
><em>"Some lovely wildflowers. Periwinkle and-" <em>  
><em>"I don't care about the wildflowers, Robin." <em>  
><em>"Now that's just sad," Robin said reproachfully. "You should listen to yourself, your grace! Sad. I say it again: sad." <em>  
><em>Terence forced himself to take a slow breath. "Later we'll go appreciate the wildflowers together, shall we?" -The Legend of the King, page 237<em>

_...Robin said, his voice suddenly husky. "And Terence? I won't forget your promise."_  
><em>Terence blinked. "What promise is that?" <em>  
><em>"The wildflowers, lad." -The Legend of the King, page 237<em>

_Just before his eyes, a tiny blue periwinkle bloomed, incongruous and somehow unconquerable amid the slaughter. "I should show you to Robin," Terence murmured. Then he closed his eyes. -The Legend of the King, page 252_

* * *

><p><strong>Headcanons: When Robin mentioned the wildflowers, he was asking Terence to come home before the battle began, because he wasn't really needed on earth anymore. Terence refused to leave Arthur, not even realizing it was one last plea. Robin made sure that promise was kept-he was by Terence's side, invisible, as he died, and he conjured up the periwinkle. Wildflower promises, for me, will forever be a promise made, usually unconsciously, that you will do anything to keep, even if you lose your life or break your heart in the process.<strong>

**...Sorry.**

**On another note, I got a Tumblr yesterday. My URL is .com and I'm VERY new and looking for blogs to follow! Or send me prompts or questions or anything!**


	18. Elysium Bound

**WARNING! Mild spoilers for BD and LoK, but nothing too serious. **

**Continuation from 3: No One's Story. I did promise I'd _try _to write another future!not-quite-reincarnation!AU, after all, and after about a month of touch-and-go, here you are. So, same warnings apply as to the last future!fic: this is weird, stream-of-consciousness, and a little bit crazy. PM me or review if I need to explain any confusing thing or if you wanted to ask about this 'verse, because I'm still figuring things out myself.**

****Besides, I needed something fluffy to write after that last thing.** Even though I don't like BD quite as much as the other books in the series, Dinadan as a whole _fascinates _me, and the friendship between Dinadan and Palomides is one of my favorite things _ever. _Palomides is a sweetie, and I want to hug him. Thinking of the two of them in terms of this teeny AU was delightful. **

* * *

><p>Adam Eric Danz always considered himself a creature of compromise and passive rebellion. His father hated that about him. Sometimes he thought his father hated him. No, he <em>knew <em>his father sometimes hated him, but only sometimes. That was the difficult thing about being a living compromise. He knew more than anyone else around him, about everything else around him. More even than that Toby McGuire with his too-old eyes that only saw half of whatever there was to see.

As a small child, Adam had wanted nothing more than to be a musician, and his friends, teachers, and mother agreed. He was a prodigy, with no hint of exaggeration about the phrase. He'd been cobbling notes into songs since he was two, and reading music for almost as long. His singing voice was highly praised, and he could practically play almost everything in an orchestra or a rock band. He loved music, of all genres and nationalities, though he had a soft spot for Middle Eastern music that he did not understand until he was old enough to accept the memories lost in the Lethe.

His father, on the other hand, had wanted him to follow in his footsteps—and _his _father's footsteps, and his father's _father's _footsteps. The Danzes were a short line of scholars and pedants, all with doctorate degrees in things like _philosophy _and _psychology _and _human studies. _They all taught at fancy colleges part time and spent most of their lives locked up in libraries, pondering the meaning of life and looking down on the mere mortals that dared live like actual people. Adam found that all a bit too pretentious and stuffy, and had no patience for the intellectual community. Knowledge without application was useless to him. Much better suited for his older brother Christian, who was an idiot, but knew how to speak nonsense and make it sound clever and deep. Adam was both more practical and fanciful than that, traits he'd gotten from his mother.

When his mother died, however, Adam was the only one left to fight for his music. He didn't fight well. Or at all, if he could help it. He did all the preparation his father expected him to do, got a jump start on his college career, started working on his teaching degree, though he never hid the fact that he was still taking music lessons—and giving them—and was in and out of bands and coffee shop gigs in his spare time. His father ignored it, so long as he became a teacher, and eventually, a fancy-pants professor like the rest of the family. Which is why he was so surprised when, with a smirk and a flourishing hand, Adam admitted to the Christmas gathering that he was graduating the following spring with a Master's in secondary school music education.

Compromise and passive rebellion. It worked for him, even if it did get him disowned.

Not that he cared, because his first (and only, he swore) teaching job had been at West Central High School under the stern and loving thumb of Principal Arthur Prendergast. It was a good-sized school, large, but not so large that you couldn't learn everyone's names. The pay wasn't perfect, but it was better than the smaller schools around. The kids were…kids, but Adam didn't have a problem with that, being not much more than a kid himself. The cincher was his coworkers, who seemed to be more like a family that accepted him as one of them almost instantly—accepted him for _who he was _instead of for his connections or credentials. His music was appreciated, and his personality and sense of humor were adored.

And it was shortly after moving into the district that he realized something wasn't quite…right. With him, or with any of his coworkers.

They had an odd habit of…floating out of themselves, every once in a while. Adam could be having a perfectly normal conversation with, say, the math teacher Barry Jones, when all of a sudden the man would zone out and miss the next several sentences. Then he'd shake his head and rub his temple momentarily and ask him what he'd just said. At first he thought it was a localized problem. Then he realized it was all of them, every teacher in the school. In different degrees, of course. Apparently it ranged from mild forgetfulness (Michael Griffon, the Home Economics teacher) to minor existential crises and the occasional crippling migraine (Leo Maloney, who taught psychology). And every time he played anything for his students, he got the feeling that it should be happening to him as well, but wasn't.

The music eventually led him to realize there _was _something happening to him, and it happened every time he played anything, anywhere, for any reason. It had been happening all his life. He'd just never noticed until he came here and saw all the peculiarities of his new friends and, yes, family. He had the horrible feeling that he was forgetting something terribly important. No, more than forgetting—_losing _something. Something was being _torn _from him whenever the song ended. He could only cling to words when the music stopped, vague words. Not every time, and they were quickly forgotten.

Unfortunately, he got the job while Gavin Odell and, more importantly, his foster son Toby McGuire (McGuire-Odell, most of the other teachers teased, because it was only stubbornness, politics, and a serious relationship with Laura McGuire that stopped the man from outright adopting Toby) were in England, on sabbatical and working on some fancy mythology project. Without Toby, things were nearly impossible to figure out, and it wasn't until the two returned that Adam was able to connect all the dots. He hadn't even seen the often talked about pair yet—they arrived in town, and something just _clicked. _His theories grew, until only one possible explanation remained. It still sounded ridiculous—how could he, or anyone else, have memories he only knew about while making music?

The day after this revelation he arrived early at the school, hoping to meet the infamous Gavin Odell.

Instead, he ran into Toby.

The boy had rounded a corner as he came down the hallway and stopped cold at the sight of him. Adam hadn't recognized him, so he made an assumption. "You must be Toby McGuire," he had said with a smile. "I've been hearing all about you and your foster father for the last four months. I'm the new music teacher. Both choir and band for now." No response, save a smile creeping over the boy's face. "Uh…sorry. I'm Mr. Danz, although I'd prefer if you called me Adam. Arthur's been fine with me letting students do that."

"Yeah," had come the answer. "Yeah, that sounds like Arthur. You haven't run into him yet this morning, have you?"

Adam had nodded. "Try the cafeteria. He was trying to sweet talk an extra cinnamon roll out of the lunch ladies last I saw."

"Right," the boy had said and begun walking again. "Nice to meet you, Dinadan."

"It's Adam," he'd corrected with a fluttering feeling in his stomach.

"No it's not," Toby'd called over his shoulder, disappearing from view.

Adam sat in his office now, running his fingers lovingly over the strings of his mother's old violin, recalling the event. He'd raced back to his office and locked the door behind him, rocking back and forth like a maniac, trying to process why the name meant _so much _to him. He'd picked up this same violin, turning it over and over, feeling the grain in the wood, the tautness of each string. Then he'd played. And this time, though he couldn't remember it after, he _knew _what he'd lost, and it was _nothing. _

Adam wasn't like the others. He was bound to Elysium, after all, not Avalon. There was no reincarnation or repossession or whatever it was that happened to the others. Nothing like that at all. There was no voice in his head, as Terence-Toby had described once, no guiding hand to tell him what he was and what would happen. He was spared that pain, in return for the greater one he'd have once the others had gone and left him alone. Well, not _completely _alone, but alone enough.

Adam _was _Dinadan.

But he only remembered it when he played.

He strummed one string now and let the memories flood over him while the sound reverberated through the tiny room. He sank to the floor and smiled. Every minute of every day of every year of every life he'd ever had played over in Dinadan's head, but it wasn't overwhelming at all. He could _see _so much more than the others, could _understand _everything so _clearly_, because he had gone on after Arthur's death. He was Camelot's continuation, and he _had _to remember. And he'd never changed. He was still himself, eternally himself, and the price for that was memory. He couldn't live like this all the time. The music was enough, and at music's end was the Lethe.

Terence had once said, back when he was Theodore, that he didn't know how Dinadan could be so completely at peace with himself when he only ever lived half his life at one time. Dinadan had shrugged and kept playing, unfazed. Really, as long as he was aware that he wasn't all there, he was fine with it. Compromise and passive rebellion. It had worked for him for a thousand years, and he wasn't about to start worrying about things he couldn't change now.

The note faded out and the memories with it, and Adam smiled and closed his eyes. The door opened. "Paulie!" he said without looking, smile growing.

A deep, chesty chuckle met his ears. "You are not trying to take a nap, I hope," Paulo Maalouf said. Six months back the school, and Arthur himself, had gotten a lot of flak over the hiring of an African-born Muslim who'd only just gotten his citizenship. Most of the teachers in the school had helped Arthur fight to keep him (with Adam leading that particular charge, much to the surprise of Paulo, who'd only just met him), and in Adam's opinion, the apparently eternal struggle against the school board and community was well worth it to have Palomides where he belonged. The Moor wasn't bound to any other world, but managed to be himself without any History or Memory. With a few exceptions, he fit perfectly in the school, and the student body universally adored him. Adam, Paulo, and woman named Brandy Lancaster ran the music department at the high school now, never so much as teaching one thing each as trading classes with each other, popping in and out of each other's classes, and generally wreaking havoc on the traditional ideas of "departments" and "classes" shared by the other schools in the district.

Adam patted the floor next to him and gestured to the guitar on the other side of the room. "Come on, you, and pass me that. I know you don't come to work early for kicks and giggles. We've got fifteen minutes before the Dragon comes and makes us do teacher work."

Paulo chuckled. "You know you should—"

"_Play_ with me, Paulie," the young genius insisted, pouting a bit and reaching for his bow.

His friend finally sat on the floor next to him, scooching over to make room for the guitar. He protested a bit when Adam traded his precious violin for the guitar, insisting Adam was much better than him and Paulo wouldn't do the instrument justice. Adam grinned. Familiar arguments. Even in this form, Palomides was the nicest, most genuine person he'd ever met, and the best friend he'd ever have. "I don't care. I want to sing. I can't sing with that in my ear. You're fine at it, you're always fine."

He took the violin and tucked it reverently under his chin, drawing the bow lightly across the strings. "Did you have anything in mind?"

Adam hummed and strummed the guitar strings, leaving the grinning Paulo to catch up with the familiar tune. Dinadan closed his eyes again, letting the music flow through him. "_What that I was but a little tiny boy…_" he began to sing.

Maybe it was hard sometimes, being the one whose Memory lived on. Dinadan never let it bother him. He'd nearly broken the first time Camelot fell, true, but he'd made it through with the help of his friends, and he'd made it through every other time, too. Growing closer to Terence, talking to the center of things, that helped as well. He never had any regrets in any life and, living compromise that he was, he enjoyed having the chance to make different choices and do different things.

Who knows? Maybe this time he'd marry Brangienne.

_Or,_ his quickly-forgotten thoughts echoed as the music ended with Brandy's entrance and a new mountain of music history worksheets to grade, _maybe not._

* * *

><p><strong>Don't forget to review, and thanks for reading!<strong>


	19. Slice of Life

**I'm long winded. If you've read a story of mine, any story, you'll probably have realized this by now. But as long winded as I can be, I also really enjoy writing these things I call "microfics," especially when certain other characters are being irritating and nothing else is flowing the way it's supposed to. Ahem. And microfics are shorter than drabbles, but not necessarily bound by sentence restrictions like one- or three-sentences stories are. I usually keep mine under seventy-five words.**

**So I wrote you guys a set of these. Prompts are in the order in which I found/received them. Some funny, some tragic, some I'm proud of, some I'm not, shouldn't be any major spoilers, any characters at all, and it's one in the morning and I'm doing this note half asleep so this may not even make as much sense as I'd like. Just read. **

* * *

><p><strong>Common Knowledge<strong>

No matter how big and brave and strong a knight is, when faced with nightmares or ignoble death or extreme agony, he will break and sob and scream for his mother.

All knights, except two. Gawain and Gaheris scream for each other.

**Anchor**

Terence was stuck in the World of Men, and would be until the day he died. And while he fiercely missed Avalon and wished he could see his father and sister more often, he could never really bring himself to regret his decision. After all, it was a different kind of family that bound him to Camelot.

**Ice**

Winters fell hard on Camelot, but never so hard that Dinadan did not feel it was his duty to sing his greetings to the harsh, chilling winds. Nor did he ever slack off leaving monsters sculpted out of snow to peer into every first floor window, much to Griflet's dismay.

**Excuses**

Nimue thought she'd heard every one in the book, but when her daughter came in late for her lessons again, this time with grass stains and egg all down her dress and honey dripping from her hair, the Lady of the Lake knew she was in for a good tale.

**Wild**

Once, Bleoberis dared Sagramore to ride Guingalet. Once.

**Lively**

Guinevere loved dances. She loved the twirling colors and jumping steps, the rich tastes and elaborate dishes, meeting new people.

Then there was Lancelot. Then there was Arthur again. And in time, there was her sudden awareness of all her mistakes.

She still loved dances, but the spectacle wasn't nearly as exciting now as was an evening of conversation with her husband and his inner court.

**Remorseful**

The only time Terence had ever heard Robin apologize was when the imp got him and Gawain stuck in a mud puddle that a passing sorcerer turned into quicksand. Not that the two had been hurt. Scared for a few seconds, maybe, but not hurt. In fact, the squire laughed at Robin's apology, laughed and laughed and _laughed _until the faery pushed him back into the sand and ran off.

**Dismiss**

Charis was forgettable. People didn't notice her at first. They assumed things. Underestimated her.

That was just the way she liked it. It made it all that much more delicious when she put on the crown and ripped all their clever little notions to shreds.

**Heavy**

Somehow, even though he knew it was still dangerous, Gawain didn't feel afraid of landing in water in full armor anymore.

**Prowl**

Perhaps Morgan _was _cruel. She'd been called that before. Cruel, vindictive, terrifying. Perhaps she was, and perhaps she didn't care. She could be other things, too. She could be kind and sweet, loving and strong.

And she would be the first to admit that, although she would've traded her sister back alive for all the excitement and magic in the world, she had begun hunting down Dioneta's murderers partly for the _fun _of it.

**Cut**

The way Gaheris carried on you'd think Lynet had killed his favorite dog rather than trimmed his hair.

**Impulse**

Piers didn't know what possessed him to peck Ariel's cheek, inciting a burning blush on both children. They resolved never to speak of it again, but both thought of the brief moment of contact with a forlorn sigh of what might have been, if they were as old then as they were now…

The joining of their hands the next time they met spoke of more daring kisses to come.

**Hush**

After England, Araby seemed oddly quiet to Palomides.

**Tiger**

One day when Lass was being particularly insolent, a frustrated Luneta conjured an illusion of a beast she'd only heard of in stories—a wild, striped beast, larger and more ferocious than their half-tame lioness. Lass snarled at first, but seemed disappointed when her lunging paw passed right through the image.

**Book Stacks**

In times of great boredom around the city, Sirs Dinadan and Bedivere could often be found in the backs of libraries, whispering stories aloud to each other and hoping beyond hope they would not be discovered.

**Inkwell**

Kai always shuddered to remember his first week exploring the paperwork side of being seneschal. He went through two stacks of parchments and three inkwells in an hour, not counting the one he spilled. He swore writing was harder on his hands and wrists than fighting.

**Pens**

Tor made the mistake of teasing Kai for insisting paperwork hurt more than tournaments. After spending three afternoons and seven quills being Kai's secretary, the young knight began bringing him poultices in the evenings.

**Silk**

Blue silk, like water, is nothing but soft and lovely and easy to hold in one's arms. Green silk chafes and burns under armor.

**Starlight**

On clear, perfect summer nights balanced on the tip of half-moons, Lynet liked to sneak out of the manor and sleep under the stars. Gaheris thought she was mad for it, but couldn't deny that she looked…_better_…for drinking in the night.

**Murky**

Sometimes Arthur's dreams were chaotic and dark, and somehow had a feeling of _swamp _to them. Of tainted water and thick fog and lurking danger. The waters would be difficult to navigate if not for Terence's lanterns in the distance, the low flames highlighting the squire's footsteps, guiding him home.

**Gloom**

One thing Guinglain noticed about leaving his little valley was the sadness. It never lasted long, thank goodness, but it was just _hard _sometimes, being who he was in this strange and ever-new world.

It was then he missed Ellyn the most.

**Eyes**

He smiled as he met his mother's gaze, a cool darkness in his own that just reflected her malicious light. She couldn't intimidate him any more than he could her. They knew it and accepted it, and the emptiness in their eyes bounced between them. That tension-laden stare was as close to real love as they could possibly get.

**Lord**

Sir Pelleas won Ettard before the end, not that the marriage changed their lifestyle much. The insults and abuse remained the same, though it was now interspersed with smatterings of bedroom farce and guilty sobbing. A more ridiculous lord and lady could not be found in all of England.

**Pursuit**

She used to like the chase. Not that Brangienne ever chased anything herself. She liked to watch others do it—that endless run-around in love, politics, friendship, scandal. She loved to observe the start, the hunter spying his or her prey, and she liked it when the prey turned out to be bigger than anticipated and began to hunt the hunter.

She has a greater respect for the prey, now.

**Trap**

After Terence and Gawain left, Trevisant found the snare that brought the two together and hung it from a peg on the inside of his door. Even if he soon wouldn't be able to remember the boy he'd raised, he wanted to make sure his dear, brave little faery prince was never forgotten.

**Wind**

Eileen wound her hands through her knotted, filthy hair and tugged out another mud clot. There were some parts of adventuring that just weren't worth it.

**Porcelain**

He learned quickly that tournaments were dangerous. Arms snapped like finest pottery, and the bones poking from skin were just as white.

This wasn't the only reason that young Arthur also went as pale as bone and resisted the urge to take his brother's hand. Kai was expected to go out there. And Arthur had forgotten the sword.

**Touch**

Rhience wasn't accustomed to excessive touch. Luneta, on the other hand, came from a very tactile family. As she threaded her warm fingers between his, he decided he could get used to it.

**Scowl**

Sarah's expressions were nuanced. She had a different sour face for all occasions. In stories, the closest friends and family could _always _read each other's expressions, even if the changes were subtle. For the first time, she was in a position to know that was true.

**Voice**

To Gawain's eternal amusement, Terence never noticed just how much his voice changed when he made the leap from subservient squire to Duke of Avalon.

* * *

><p><strong>Also, my tumblr URL is lady-feste-pendragon, if anyone wants to follow me or send me prompts. Sorry the site ate the first attempt. Now, hope you enjoyed the microfics and don't forget to review and I'm going to bed. Goodnight!<strong>


	20. Holding the Crown

**Spoilers (general, not specific, I mean, you've probably guessed most of them already) for The Legend of the King, and more specific spoilers for The Quest of the Fair Unknown, and some general speculation on kings and succession (man I _love _that phrase. Expect that to pop up again, somewhere, sometime). **

* * *

><p>"Guinglain," Dinadan said, flicking a bit of apple peel off the tip of his dagger and stretching his legs out before the fire. "Weren't you one of those young pups who popped into Camelot looking for knightly fathers?"<p>

A year after the Battle of Barham Down, the land was healing well. A good harvest this fall and an especially sweet crop of fruit did much to lift the spirits of the people still struggling to survive. Barham Down itself was now covered with thick, soft grass, sometimes interspersed with sweet violets, dandelions, and odd spatterings of periwinkle. The graves were unmarked save for the flowers, but people frequently made trips to pay homage to the knights of the Round Table. A certain Sister Arthur, with Mother Brangienne's blessing, went with every passing party of pilgrims who stopped by the convent.

Luneta, Rhience, and Morganna had their own place now, a charming little house with enough land to live on and an odd brook that used to house a gate, a few leagues north of the untouched ruins of the once mighty city of Camelot. It would not be long, they knew, before the house became a manor again. Rhience was a talented steward, Luneta had even more skill than her mother, and people were drawn to the couple just as much as they had been drawn to Gaheris and Lynet. Already, in fact, they had a small family living just outside of their property.

As for Palomides, Guinglain, and Dinadan, they had decided to spread their stories together. Life had become one long quest, the new Greatest Quest, Guinglain said, the Quest Without End. Truthfully, Dinadan thought it was exactly his kind of quest, even if Palomides did occasionally get antsy. Dinadan often told his dear friend it was all right for him to go back to the Holy Land, but the Moor refused every time.

Earlier that day, they'd been spreading quite a lot of story to a new township near Cornwall. They made camp for the night about an hour's ride from the city, next to a river. Trout had been roasted and consumed, and the apples the villagers offered as payment for their music had been almost completely demolished as well, but the three were too comfortable lounging around the fire and breathing in the crisp autumn air to try to sleep.

Palomides, who'd been reading some kind of scroll, glanced at the younger man in interest. "I did not know your father was a knight of Camelot."

"Supposed knight," Dinadan corrected. "That was a particularly bad year for yearling boys all clamoring for knighthood because their mothers told them their fathers had done the same. And you _don't _know the story of our dear Le Beau, do you?"

"I should be very glad to hear it."

Guinglain smiled his most infectious smile at his companions. "It's a long one. I doubt we'd finish it tonight."

"We've got all the time in the world," the last remaining Round Table Knight said, waving the words aside. "Did you ever find out who he was? Your father, I mean."

The man hummed and leaned back against his saddle bags. "I never _did _tell anyone, did I? How forgetful of me. Yes, I did find out."

"Well, don't keep us in suspense. Would I have known him?"

"I should think so. It was Gawain."

Dinadan choked on his last bite of apple. Palomides reached around and gave him a firm pat on the back, dislodging the chunk from his windpipe. It flew into the fire, leaving Dinadan to cough and massage his chest while the other two stared at him with eyebrows raised. "You're…joking…right?" he gasped at last.

Guinglain cocked his head. "I should think not. It wouldn't be a very funny joke."

"You don't know the half of it," Dinadan said. He fell quiet, the dangerous kind of quiet that usually marked the beginning of one of his periodic bouts of depression. Palomides glanced at Guinglain for some kind of cue, but the younger man just shrugged.

"Dinadan," the Moor began.

The bard shook his head. "Had you heard that Gawain was related to Arthur?"

Palomides looked at Guinglain again. "It's in your songs, yes."

"Right. And did either of you know that one of the main reasons Arthur rushed Mordred into positions of power was because he was lacking an heir?"

"Yes…" Guinglain said with a deep frown.

Dinadan nodded and kept talking, a wry little smile on his face. "And were you aware that Luneta would have been in line for the throne had she been born a man and had Mordred not reappeared, because Gawain and his brothers were not trained to rule a country?"

Palomides' eyes widened, realizing where his friend was going. Guinglain looked like he was starting to realize it too, and wasn't happy about it. "Dinadan—"

Dinadan chuckled, a futile sound. "Had Arthur known about you, it would have been you in Mordred's place, until the snake himself showed up, anyway. And had Mordred known about you, he would have killed you even sooner than he did Bedivere, 'holy man' or no. If you had lived, you would have been hidden away while the war raged on, protected until the day either peace came or Arthur fell. Then whoever was left to pick up the pieces would have handed you the crown. It's a pity you're the one doing the picking, really."

"Dinadan—" Guinglain said, shaking his head.

"Are you suggesting what I think you are suggesting?" said the dark-skinned knight, eyes glittering in the firelight.

Dinadan nodded and, pulling himself from a slouch to a sitting position, half-bowed to the man who sat across the fire pit. "Behold, Guinglain son of Gawain son of Lot, King over all England and the Britons."

The two didn't need light to know the man was blushing. The shifty look in his eyes as his gaze dropped to the flames was enough. "Except for one thing," he said, softly. "Arthur only _fell. _We've yet to find his body or anyone who has found it, and I don't think we will, because I don't think he died. So Arthur's still king, wherever he is, or he will be again someday." He pressed his shoulders into his pack and sighed before looking at the two knights again. "I'm happy to hold his crown for him while he's gone, but I think carrying on his name is enough of a kingly duty for me, don't you think?"

Palomides leaned back against his own bags and cast a thoughtful smile in Dinadan's direction. The knight had an echo of that smile on his own face, aimed at Guinglain. "More than enough," he said with a small nod. "I think Arthur would be glad to have you shepherding his people, and I think your father would be proud of you."

A Saracen knight, a singer with a title and a sword, and the King of all England, traipsing around the countryside like beggars, telling stories for their supper. Yes, they were sure both would be proud of all of them. It was a strange group, but there had been stranger; and the Quest was well worth it. Guinglain answered that with a small smile of his own, his eyes unfocused, his thoughts clearly far away. Silence fell over the camp as the night grew darker.

* * *

><p><strong>And there we go. Don't forget to leave a review! They make me feel all warm and squishy inside. Also, working on a new Micro set and could use a few more words, if you've got them.<strong>


	21. Slice of Life II

**I know! I'm slow! I'm sorry! I'm bad! I really did have some personal things come up, but it's summer now, hooray! Hopefully I'll be able to get over this stupid funk and start writing like crazy! The rest of "Marriage," apparently, wants to be written backwards. It's very distracting. **

**Anyway, here you are! More microfics! Lots of dark, bitter, depressing ones woven into the light ones. Blame the people who gave me the words that woke up my whump muse. It's their fault, though I'm sure they regret giving me the words as well. ****Tell me which ones you like, and which ones tickle your fancy for maybe something larger. Really, I love these books more than is good for me. I need an intervention.**

* * *

><p><strong>1. Resurrection<strong>

Gawain blinked at the sudden light and the sudden realization that the pain he'd lived with for the last few weeks was completely gone. He didn't know what dying felt like, but he was sure this was what came after.

**2. Joy**

After getting over his initial indignation about sworn to a fool's motley for a year, Rhience felt almost relieved. He wasn't a good knight, or a good priest—but he was good at laughing. It couldn't be too hard to bring that laughter to others—could it?

**3. Valor**

Despite all the other things he'd been wrong about, Lancelot was sure he knew what bravery was. Then Sarah took him across the edge of a sword.

**4. Blade**

The snakes were made of enchanted star-metal, the dagger tempered in a murderer's blood. The forger's red-stained fingers used it for ritual slaughter before the apprentice's soft hands used it to cut the mistress' throat. It lay largely unused until picked up by her son, with strong, calloused hands, as he left for Camelot.

But it was in the small, capable hands of the man's squire that the blade found its purpose.

**5. Sting**

Dinadan was a Poet above all, and sometimes felt the need to write more truth than people were willing to hear. He caused contention among the older and stuffier courtiers and often had to leave court a few weeks after certain performances. He always came back before his audience was ready, but his triumphant returning songs took the hurt out of his more cutting melodies.

After Piers began taking lessons from his father, his mother dismantled his once-beloved scarlet hat and sewed the cloth into the lining of his favorite tunic. "Never forget where you come from," she told him with a smile.

**7. Tease**

The people of Orkney were thrilled when Gaheris returned to steward the land, and even more thrilled that he'd married, but the new couple was not what anyone expected. It took months for their subjects to get used to a love that began with insults, and even longer to get used to it.

**8. Pessimist**

Gawain was an optimist. Gaheris was a realist. Gareth was a pessimist. Agravaine was an idealist. Mordred was an opportunist. And there were bits of their cynical mother in all of them.

**9. Lofty**

It did not take long for the people of Orkney to realize their new lady was a sorceress. It took even less time before ambitious stories of her awesome power were whispered to children at bedtime.

**10. Breeze**

The breeze blowing from Barham Down carried the stench of death straight down to the sea for weeks.

**11. Flight**

Terence was grateful to Morgan for never rubbing it in that the first time the Duke of Avalon saw her, he fled in terror.

**12. Halcyon**

The best of times, Dinadan recalled one winter, huddled with Palomides and Guinglain for warmth, were the times when the greats returned from their quests and the feasting had ended, and a dreamy, perfect calm settled over Camelot.

**13. Fey**

Some people underestimated her loyalties or personality, but no one underestimated her abilities. There was a reason she was called Morgan le Fey.

**14. Eternity**

When faced with all of forever to spend together, the years of separation Gawain and Lorie endured suddenly seemed worth it.

**15. Feather**

Feathers were all the rage in France for exactly one year and one year only. The parade knights embraced this whole-heartedly for one week and one week only. There were some things that were just _too _ridiculous, even for Griflet.

**16. Mountain**

Gaheris firmly believed that the delighted, awed look on Lynet's face the first time he brought her to see the Highlands was well worth the long walk, aching feet, getting lost, and bickering along the journey there.

**17. Fight**

Mordred's men expected docile Ladies of Court, as was the queen. For the most part, that's what they found. But the short, redheaded woman they discovered with Guinevere was more trouble to them than she was worth. While some subdued the screaming, struggling queen, the others fought with a gentlewoman determined to scratch out their eyes, to defend her queen to the last.

**18. Roar**

...She had some experience with fighting, something else the Horsemen weren't expecting. She disarmed one of the younger, greener knights and fought them with his sword, cold fury in her eyes.

Had there been fewer men, she may have succeeded. Half the company smuggled the queen out of the room while the rest overwhelmed her. A wound to her thigh brought her down, snarling in anger, roaring in pain.

**19. Door**

…The men ran before the woman could pull herself back onto her feet, barring the door behind them. She was still awake when they set the room on fire.

**20. Splendour**

Robin Goodfellow was not _barred _from the glory of Avalon after the closing of the gates, but he wasn't necessarily freely allowed in, either. Only Ganscotter knew just what and who the little imp was and what he was capable of—powerful enough to lend his charms to a world without magic and no so powerful that he was hampered by the lack of enchantment.

**21. Duty**

…And so, he stayed in England, as there was still work to be done. Because he could, because he was one of the very few left who could. He did the chores of deserving people and brought them luck, and played jokes on both deserving and not. Sometimes he met a person with bits of Avalon still in their blood, and gave them Words. The end of one story isn't the end of them all.

**22. Bitter**

…He did miss home. More than he dared to admit when he popped back for orders or a visit. He missed the beauty of the Island, and all the people in it, and he knew Terence hated it when Robin looked at him as if he were a ghost. He was never bitter. He loved his work. He just wished he could afford to do less of it.

**23. Far Away**

…After all his stories were told, he retook his old position of messenger to the other Other Worlds, both the open and the closed. Far from home and close by. Elysium, Yggdrasil, Tír na nÓg, Babylon, El Dorado—anywhere there was a gathering of magical creatures waiting for their time to reappear. Other Worlders never forget their own, no matter how different they may have appeared.

**24. Lamppost**

…Though the strangest world Robin remembered visiting was one he fell into by accident, one he never knew existed, with some kind of iron tree at the entrance. He left quickly, not willing to go trekking in places a faery with limited magic may not be safe.

**25. Water**

…But even destiny could not keep him out forever. Always, between trips, he returned through the rivers into home. Though his visits were brief and few, Avalon always called him back.

**26. Brick**

_It wasn't fine stone or high towers that made Camelot great_, Arthur thought as he smiled over the parapets. _It was the hearts of her people.  
><em>

**27. Barren**

Morgause smiled at the wasteland before her, lifting her face to drink in the burning red sun. The blood sun, some of the other Unseelie folk called it, cowering in their holes. Avalon was not the only court The Enchantress had tried to destroy.

**28. Flat**

Journeying over flat desert lands was easier than any other terrain, but deuce take it if it wasn't the hottest, driest, most _boring _thing Dinadan had ever done.

**29. Rainstorm**

Ariel was young, and her inexperience usually excused her from trouble. But when she accidentally held rain over Ganscotter's palace for three days while attempting a simple binding spell, even she couldn't get out of punishment.

Not that Ganscotter minded. He just laughed as Nimue scolded her daughter. And Merlin, though he couldn't show it, was _thrilled. _

**30. Thanks**

It was a day or two after escaping Castle Wirral before dark bruises formed under Terence's ears and the back of his neck where the chef had gripped or beat him. Gawain noticed with a deep frown, imagining more such bruises covering his best friend's chest and arms when the squire winced at odd movements. He didn't acknowledge them, however. He simply sent the boy fishing instead of working, next time they made camp.

**31. Hole**

Lancelot gently teased Sarah on their way back to Camelot, that such an able young woman could defeat a man in combat _and _fall victim to a wrenched ankle for not seeing a hole.

_Gently _teased, mind. She could be quite terrifying when roused.

**32. Memory**

Two years since Gawain left to die. He'd been all but forgotten, and Kai's heart ached as he leaned over the letter of a continental lord coming to stay a few months in Camelot. Some flunkey had written a note at the bottom, _Sir Gawain's old chambers will do. _He blinked rapidly and wrote the note that would put the lord in the opposite tower. If Arthur could hope, so could he.

**33. Soaked**

The downside of traveling between worlds was how wet you were bound to be once you'd come to the other side.

**34. Fish**

Fish that had been clooved before roasting tasted somehow better than the uncleft sort.

**35. Journal**

The first year of his reign, Arthur documented ever decision he ever made, pouring over what worked and what went wrong, determined to be the best ruler possible. Eight months in he started writing less and thinking more, embracing his natural leadership ability. He didn't even notice when Merlin threw the book away.

**36. Listen**

After the closing of the gates, Luneta's powers diminished over time—but her inner ear just grew stronger.

**37. World**

Sometimes Gaheris felt restless and talked about traveling the world. Lynet simply sighed and said if he could defeat her in a sword fight, he could go questing with his brother.

He tried, but never could manage it. He insisted she was getting secret lessons from someone. Lynet never had the heart to tell him the only lesson she received was in how to properly hold the blade.

**38. Respect**

Certainly Terence never got the respect or recognition he _deserved _while in England, but he did get the kind he _wanted. _Very few knights there were who underestimated the squire who had the king's ear.

The lords were another story.

**39. Trouble**

…A stern look or angry word from Kai was usually enough to keep the more troublesome lords at bay. No one wanted the brother and seneschal of the king unhappy with them, no matter how irritating certain squires became. But if Kai wasn't watching, Terence could find himself with more of a workload than he could handle in a day—or, occasionally, a few painful new bruises.

**40. See**

…Odd things happened to nobility who made themselves nuisances to Terence—like being tripped down hallways or misplacing valuable things or being haunted. The squire made out like he didn't notice either his troubles or theirs, though he sometimes could be spotted telling off empty corners after bad episodes.

The tricky part for all was making sure Arthur never noticed—or worse, _Gawain_.

**41. Cover**

Lynet despaired over her daughter's needlepoint skills and eventually stopped scolding her use of magic to make the more difficult pieces. Magic made the most colorful tapestries and warmest blankets, anyway.

**42. Swear**

Gawain swore worst and most often when he felt helpless.

**43. Needles**

"Stinging nettles by the back door, my dear?" Gaheris asked, showing his wife his red, burning arm.

She hummed. "Next time you try to sneak off and do something knightly and stupid, it'll be a sticker bush fence."

**44. Fallen**

_The only thing better than a hero is a fallen idol, _Lancelot thought bitterly, watching his former "friends" mutter behind their hands at how much he'd _changed _and how he was somehow _lacking _after his years away from court. He was bitter for them, not for himself. He intended to make more worthy friends now.

**45. Rest**

As much as he loved being with his subjects and knights, sometimes even kings needed an evening to himself, Guinevere, and occasionally the company of just a few good friends.

**46. Magnificent **

Arthur had never seen a more beautiful and powerful sight in all his few years than that of the sword sheathed in stone. Had he not been in such a hurry to pull it out, he might have admired it more.

**47. Vainglorious**

Griflet made Gawain redefine, for the hundredth time, what made a hero.

**48. Gigue**

One of the most ridiculous things the people of Orkney ever saw was their Lord and Lady, Lynet six months with child and both of them covered in mud, dancing in the courtyard after a long day of planting just because some knight who was clearly awful at being a knight had stopped for a visit and brought his rebec and performed his hello.

**49. Laugh**

The sound of Arthur's laughter was always welcome and wonderful, but grew rarer as the king grew older. Kai welcomed Mordred more eagerly than he should have because the lad brought Arthur's laughter back.

But Kai's mirth died with Bedivere and Arthur's with Mordred's betrayal. No man ever hated another so much as Kai did his nephew.

**50. Pavement**

Centuries passed. Roads of rough-hewn stone gave way to concrete and asphalt. There came generations who never gave thought to the rich and blood-washed history of their beautiful island, never cared about the dust of the dead buried under their feet.

But the stories were never forgotten.


	22. The Titans

**This chapter is dedicated to Elfpen on her twentieth birthday. **

**Mild spoilers (kind of) to The Lioness and her Knight. Also a teensy bit (okay, more than that) crackish. Enjoy! **

* * *

><p>Sarah walked through the wooded glen just outside of Camelot, glancing through the trees for a familiar face. He usually turned up whenever he was looked for—and barely had the thought formed in her head did the squire melt from the shadows to lean against the tree in front of her. "Hello, Terence," she said, greeting his smile with the slightest upturning of lips.<p>

Terence bowed. "Lady Sarah," he answered. "It is good to see you again."

"And you. Although I'm actually looking for Lancelot. Eileen said he was off with you and Gawain…"

"Ah. Yes, of course. Right this way." He turned and headed deeper into the glen. Sarah raised an eyebrow in confusion, but followed after him. He led her down a small, rough path that she doubted she would have been able to see without a guide. The path ended at an more open space before the gently wooded vale turned into actual forestland. Sarah paused at the sight that greeted her, tilting her head to the side.

Gawain and Lancelot were sparring. At least, that's what she _thought _they were doing. The only armor either of them wore was a modified helmet—the visors had been removed to show their faces. Each one had a thick leather jerkin and a shield, although as she watched Gawain slammed his sword to Lancelot's shield and used the blade to pull it off of his arm. "Bah!" Lancelot growled, shaking feeling back into his arm as Gawain chuckled. "I'll get thee for that, _canaille_!"

Gawain laughed, then blocked the next attack. Their swords were doing very…_strange _things. "I'd like to see you try!" He swung at Lancelot's shoulder as if wielding a club. The blow was glancing, but Sarah could have sworn she saw the metal bend.

"Uh…Terence?"

Terence, smiling, leaned against at tree and studied her. "Yes?"

She watched the two best sword fighters in England take another few swings at each other, grinning and spitting insults as if they were schoolboys playing Knights and Recreants. "You know, I was told about…a certain curious fight," she said, nodding toward the two. "And Eileen did mention that the swords had gone missing—"

"Before you jump to any conclusions, please note that it was _Gawain _who smuggled them out. I had absolutely nothing to do with this nonsense."

She turned toward him, crossing her arms in challenge. "Oh, you had _absolutely nothing at all _to do with the creation of two swords that bend like rubber when struck together?"

Terence blushed and shuffled his feet, hiding a self-satisfied smirk. "Well…maybe not _absolutely _nothing to do with them _altogether…" _

"Uh-huh." Sarah turned her attention back to the dueling knights. Lancelot swung at Gawain's ankle and pulled his arm back when the sword curled around the leg. Gawain landed on his back with an audible _whoof _of air, and while Lancelot clutched his sides and laughed, Gawain climbed to his feet and slammed his own sword down onto his head. The sword wrapped around his helmet and sprang back into shape. Lancelot scowled and struck at Gawain's torso, both of them giggling as the blades bent around each other. Sarah soon found herself giggling as well. Terence grinned at the sight of her smile, and she stuck her tongue out at him. "So, have you ever—"

"If you're asking if I've ever played judge to secret bendy-sword tournaments for the knights of the inner Round Table, I'll have you know—"

Sarah threw back her head and laughed aloud, startling the two sparring knights into looking at her; Lancelot's sword swung around and caught the off-guard Gawain in the back. He fell to the ground, again. "Sarah!" he cried, waving a hand in what could have been a greeting or a gesture of horror. "Terence, you _cad, _why didn't you tell us we had company?"

The squire shrugged and smirked as Lancelot began chuckling at the horrified look on Gawain's face. Gawain huffed and kicked the other knight's shin, dropping him to the ground as well. Sarah's laughter grew louder with Lancelot joining in. The squire raised an eyebrow at his master and walked around the other side of his tree, somehow effectively vanishing from view. "Terence!" Gawain shouted, the sound quickly drowned out by laughter.

Terence whistled as he walked back to the castle. Served both of them right, stamping over his and Plogrun's plans to use the enchanted swords in the squire's court that day.

* * *

><p><strong>Basically, the "rubber swords" from The Lioness and her Knight seemed a lot like toys to me, and Arthur sees his courtiers as children…and we all know how children are with their toys…<strong>

**Happy birthday, Elfpen! Hope it was a great one! Wish I could impart some grand piece of wisdom or advice, or assure you that turning twenty doesn't make you that old…uh, sorry, but twenty is old, and you're gonna feel old all year long. Especially when around the people who were your fellow teenagers not so long ago. **


	23. Serving and Being Served

**To those of you who have recently favorited...Hi! Not sure if you're new fans or old fans or closet fans or just wandered over here as a result of my ongoing mental Camelocalypse, but thanks for the favorites! This story is brought to you by my Camelocalpyse and need for fluffy family fiction and love of sleepy boys. **

**And thank you, Elfpen, for stamping on a seal of approval for me. You are the Bedivere to my Kai, dear friend. **

* * *

><p>One thing Terence would <em>never <em>get used to in passing from the World of Men into Avalon was going from serving to being served.

The word "serve" had lax meanings among the faeries compared to humans, but the transition was still jarring. He jumped every time someone reached over his shoulder to refill his cup. He caught himself standing to clear tables when various servants and squires stepped forward. He naturally fell in step a pace behind whomever he was walking with. He had a hard time looking people in the eye and often seemed surprised at having been addressed.

The common folk found it endearing, the nobility, infuriating. Terence was just a little embarrassed ("poor lamb," women would coo when he blushed and smiled after Ganscotter cleared his throat and told him it wasn't really necessary for a prince to bow to a lord; naturally, hearing their words, he only blushed more). He was a good and able leader and his people adored him—he just had a few quirks, side effects from spending so much time as a servant in Camelot. He did much better when Gawain came with him.

But the worst quirk of all was his issue with manservants in his morning routine.

In Camelot he rose early, dressed himself, fetched breakfast for himself and Gawain, then woke Gawain and dressed him after they ate together. He'd been dressing himself since he was old enough to know how arms fit into a tunic, after all, and didn't need to wear any fancy dress or armor most of the time. In Avalon his mornings went mostly the same, saving that he ate with his father and sister and the hour of time usually devoted to Gawain's breakfast was now free time, as he usually couldn't quite bring himself to sleep in.

So it didn't happen often, but when important feasts and festivals required his presence, tailors and servants swarmed upon their beloved prince in droves. They'd surround him so he couldn't get away before preening and pruning, snipping his hair and mourning the beard he preferred to keep shorn, swallowing him in cloth and making him look twice the popinjay Griflet was at his worst. _I wonder if Arthur has to put up with this, _he thought each morning as he rose more than usual and slipped away from his room. He knew his father didn't, but it wasn't the Enchanter's job to don finery and primp like it was the Duke of Avalon's.

Sometimes he suspected that's why his father gave him the title to begin with. He'd taken to hiding, and discovered that the gifts of silence he possessed were not universal and quite difficult often for even faeries to work around.

This particular time he came home was because he was needed to treat with an undecided faery lord. He rose well before dawn and snuck out of his rooms, down the corridor, and out of the castle. His plan was to find some secluded nook to sleep another hour or two and slip back inside to change into the clothes he'd hidden in a cupboard when there wouldn't be enough time for anyone to make him go back to his room and change with help.

He found his napping spot all right—a warm, dry patch of grass behind a tall shrub that failed to completely block a small alcove between castle towers. He curled up under the bush and waited.

Sleep did not come easily, and he was having problems staying asleep. Just days before he'd come to Avalon he'd been traveling with Gawain and his tired head wanted a pillow. He gave up right around the time the sun began to rise. He stood up, stretching stiff muscles and rubbing his face. Now he'd have bags under his eyes on top of being dressed "below his station." His father was going to give him that disapproving half-frown he'd begun to loathe.

He yawned and started back into the castle, taking the main hallway and a couple of other longer routes to avoid servants taking shortcuts. That was one area in which being a servant in Camelot had advantages—he knew where servants were at all times. He dodged into a side hallways when he heard footsteps approaching from the opposite end of his corridor, and ducked into some sleeping faery's bedroom when he ran out of side hallways to hide in. He didn't mind the roundabout journey or the long time it took to get to his hiding-cupboard. Every day of sneaking about gave him another chance to explore his father's house in ways he hadn't ever gotten to as a child. He always found something new.

The new thing today was the sound of singing coming from one of the bedrooms down the main hall he'd just entered. Terence blinked and padded softly across the floor, pressing his ear against doors as he approached them. He knew Lorie's room was down this hall, but he didn't expect _that _door to be the source of the music. Stifling another yawn, he slowly eased her door open and poked his head inside.

His sister was in the middle of her room, absently weaving a ribbon into her hair. She sang some wordless ancient song with her eyes partly closed, barely glancing at her mirror. She wore a red silk gown he didn't recognize, or perhaps didn't remember while half asleep, and as he watched she stepped back from the mirror and gave a twirl, the wide skirt flaring just so.

It was then that something came to his attention. He squinted. "Why aren't _you _being swamped by maids? Aren't girls supposed to have more to put on?"

Lorie's note ended with a half-swallowed screech as she jumped nearly out of her skin and whirled to face the door, eyes wide, clutching her chest. "_Terence!" _she said, frowning and dropping her hand. Then, observing her little brother's twiggy, sleep-mussed hair and half-lidded eyes, her face twisted into a playful fury. _"Terence,_" she said again, louder, stepping toward him with her hands reaching out like claws.

It took him a moment to realize his danger. She was nearly upon him when his eyes popped open and he turned and fled. "TERENCE!" Lorie screeched, racing down the corridor after him. Up one hallways and down two flights of stairs, she chased him. They ran into their father there, who'd left his room to see who'd let a troll into the castle and instead found his son and daughter thundering past him, his son still in his nightshirt and his daughter with her dress drawn up to her knees. They disappeared around another corner, whereupon there was a shout and a crash that _sounded _like one of them had run into a suit of armor and _possibly_ that the Duke of Avalon was a little ticklish.

Seven manservants armed with gaudy tunics, ones Robin had assigned to Terence's room with a cackle if he wasn't mistaken, came trailing up the stairs from whence the two nobles had come. Ganscotter took a deep breath, pointed them down the hallway, and went back into his room, making a mental note to cancel that day's treaty talk. Some days it wasn't worth _anyone _getting out of bed.


	24. Father

**This is a direct continuation response drabbly thing to Elfpen's Daddy Gawain oneshot in her marvelous collection of oneshots, Courtiers and Faeries. So if you haven't read that, what are you still doing here? Shoo!**

* * *

><p>They'd swirled out of the room and left Terence still red-faced and cursing up a storm. The memory of his duke's steaming fury was not yet gone from Robin's mind, and he cackled as he dropped himself and Gawain next to a river that held a gate. Gawain let go of Robin's hand and began pacing around the grass, still white, barely looking around to see where he'd been transported. Amused, the imp sat back and watched him as he paced, occasionally wringing his hands or clutching at his hair.<p>

"I'm-I'm going-" Gawain drew a deep breath. "I'm going to be a-"

Robin shook his head. "If you said it out loud, you might feel better."

The knight shook his head and resumed pacing. "Uncle...Terence is going to be an _uncle…_I'm going to be…"

"You _look _like you're going to be sick," the imp cut in, rolling his eyes. "I know for a fact that Lorie's taking this better than you, and I'm sure she's more invested right at the moment."

Gawain gasped, clearly not hearing. _"Father!_ Gog's _blood._" He sat heavily down on a rock and buried his face in his shaking hands. "Good _Gog, _I'm going to be a _father. _Lorie's going to have a _baby._"

Robin grinned. "And _there _it is."

"Father..._father..._What if I'm no good at it? What if I never get to see it?" His hands raked through his hair again and he stared at the ground by his feet. "What if something goes wrong? What if it gets sick and I can't be there? What if Gary and Arthur never get-"

The elf raised both eyebrows and shoved Gawain's head between his knees as his breathing pitched up again. "Easy there, Sir Gawain. That's all a long way away. Focus on good things right now. Little hands. Little eyes. That sort of thing."

He drew in a deeper breath and looked up. He was even paler now, but his eyes were far away and a small smile graced his lips. "Good _Gog, _I'm going to have a baby! I could have a son! Or a daughter! Oh, _Lords, _what if it's a girl and she looks like me? He could have his mother's chin, my hands, Lorie's hair, my eyes-"

Robin's head shot up as if he'd had a sudden realization, and a wicked grin spread over his face. "There is, uh...something else that runs in families that you may want to think about…"

He blinked and looked at the imp. "...What?"

"Lorie's mother. She was a twin."

Gawain's eyes rolled back in his head and he slumped off the rock into the dirt.


	25. No Monsters In Avalon

**More Daddy Gawain AU! Thanks Elf, for looking this over first. **

* * *

><p>Ganscotter awoke suddenly, staring at his ceiling through the darkness. It was an aware wakefulness not at all like that of one roused in the middle of the night, and he frowned at the uneasiness stirring within him. Something wasn't right—he couldn't explain it, but he could <em>feel <em>it. It took him about thirty seconds to recognize that particular feeling, and he rose from his bed and started for the room down the hall where his granddaughters slept.

He had walked only a few feet when one of them screamed.

He broke into a run, bursting into their bedroom just as the second began to scream as well. With a wave of his hand, Ganscotter lit every candle in the room and dashed to the two small beds. One was writhing beneath her blanket, tears leaking out of tightly clenched eyes, the other tangled up in her sheets, tiny fists flailing. Another quick, almost careless spell checked the room for any kind of intrusion, but found none.

"Girls, girls!" Ganscotter said, putting one hand on each of their shoulders and shaking gently. He wasn't looking at them exactly, however, but eyeing the space around the window where something his hasty spell didn't catch could escape. "Wake _up, _children!"

The one to his left—he had trouble telling them apart in broad daylight without being so frantic; even trying now seemed impossible—woke first, startling awake with a swallowed cry. The one to his right sat bolt upright as her sister's eyes opened and began to sob. Ganscotter's heart twisted. He gathered them both up in his arms and embraced them tightly, plopping down on the cold flagstone floor in such a way that he knew would bruise. Still struggling out of sleep, the girls clung to him and cried, shudders wracking their tiny bodies. "Shhhh…" he whispered, kissing the top of each ginger-blond head. "Shhh, you're all right now…it was just a nightmare, shhhh…."

Footsteps sounded across the floor behind him as the nurses entered. Ganscotter held up his hand to stop them. He sat and cradled them until his arms fell asleep and their sobs turned to sniffles. Then he sighed and, both three-year-olds still hanging off of him, anchored himself upright and onto the bed on the right. As the sisters settled comfortably in his lap, he gestured to the nurses. "Thank you for your quick response," he said honestly, and with a grateful smile. The two matronly faeries had been run ragged while Lorie and Gawain holidayed in Scotland with Gaheris and Lynet, and he was impressed the poor women weren't still asleep. "I think some warm milk and honey might be in store for these two little urchins, if there's any to be had." The women smiled, bowed, and left.

Ganscotter stretched his legs out and pushed his shoulders back against the wall. If he were being perfectly honest, he knew he was getting a bit old for this sort of awkward positioning. Not that it could really be helped. He rested his head against the wall as well, cupping one small, square chin and lifting it to meet the first little pair of faery eyes. "Now, do either of you want to talk about what was so horrible?"

The first—Brigette, he was almost sure—gave him a watery little smile. "There was a monster. It was _awful._"

"It tried to eat us," Lottie joined in, nuzzling his shoulder. "It had too many legs."

Ganscotter relaxed. "No scary shadows, then?" Both girls shook their heads and he breathed a sigh of relief. Just a normal nightmare. He wasn't surprised in the least that both twins should have the same nightmare—twins had a curious sort of magic to them anyway, even without being part faery.

"It chased us, and it—it tried to eat us!" Lottie said again, wiping her nose on her sleeve. "And it was fat and hairy and had lots of legs—"

"And big teeth!" Brigette cut in. "And it almost caught us—"

"It _did _catch us."

"It was gonna _eat _us, Grandy—"

A servant came in bearing two small cups of steaming milk. With cinnamon sprinkled in to boot, Ganscotter saw as the servant brought the cups forward. He wriggled and turned the girls so they could lean against his chest while they sipped their sweet milk and nodded to the servant in thanks. The man pressed the cups into the girls' hands and went to stand by the door. All leftover tears and sniffles slowly dried up as Ganscotter rubbed their backs. When they finished their milk, he waved the servant to take them away and asked, "And just where was your father while the monster was chasing you? Surely you wouldn't have been scared if he were there."

They blinked at each other and blushed. Brigette buried her face in Ganscotter's shoulder. "He wasn't there," she said, his nightshirt muffling her words.

He smiled and clicked his tongue. "And your mother? Or me, for that matter." They shook their heads together, Lottie looking grave. "Then you know it _mustn't _have been real. You know we'd fight any number of monsters to keep you safe, no matter how many legs they had."

Brigette smiled against his shoulder, but Lottie's grave look turned pensive. "Uncle Terence _was _there, though."

Of _course _he was. Ganscotter sighed fondly. He _still _wasn't sure whether Terence did that on purpose or accident, or even if he knew what he was doing at all. "What was Uncle Terence doing?"

"Pulling us out of the monster's mouth," Brigette said, turning her head to the side. "But that's when we woke up."

"There, you see? You have all of us to protect you outside your dreams, and Uncle Terence to protect you in them. You're perfectly safe."

The girls sniffed in unison and said together, "No monsters here?"

"No monsters in Avalon, ever. Neither I nor your uncle would allow it." He smiled as he felt the rest of their tension relax and they curled tighter into him. "Do you want to try going back to sleep now?"

Little heads froze and shook emphatically. "The monster might come back," Lottie whispered, burrowing deeper into his side.

He chuckled. "But Avalon is safe from monsters. Have you seen the nice man who guards our steady gates?" They nodded. "And would you like to hear his story?" More nodding. Ganscotter cradled them closer, awkwardly shifted the pillow behind his already stiff shoulder blades, and began to spin stories of Cuchulainn. He talked and talked until the girls' eyes drooped closed again and he felt their breathing even out against his own ribcage. He finished his story aloud anyway, because he felt there was something _wrong _with an unfinished story reading, and just lay in the darkness, feeling his granddaughters' hearts beating with his own. A bedraggled nurse came in and offered to put them to bed for him, but he ordered her back to her own bed, poor exhausted woman. He could do it himself, and he would…eventually. He just wanted a little more time like this first.

He could remember holding Lorie like this, after her nightmares. Usually his first wife was with him when he did, smoothing Lorie's hair and singing while he rubbed her back. It felt like centuries ago in some ways—in others, it felt like yesterday. The smile slipped off his face. When he married Terence's mother, he'd dreamed of feeling like this again, empowered by the love and trust of a child in a way that no amount of ruling could imitate. He missed that, with Terence, and one of his greatest regrets was not being able to be a father to Terence before he was a monarch.

Brigette sighed in her sleep and cuddle closer. Ganscotter ran his fingers through her hair and closed his eyes, the sleepy, satisfied feeling returning. His smile returned as Lottie wrapped her hand around his free thumb. He mourned his lost time with Terence every day, but these two troublemakers were making up for it quite nicely. _I should really get them into bed, _he thought as his own eyes drifted shut.

The next time he opened them it was to see Lorie, Lynet, _and _Eileen standing over him, cooing softly, while Brigette drooled into his nightshirt and Lottie held his thumb in a sleeping death grip. He couldn't feel his arms, his chest was sore, there was a crick in his neck, and his back already ached. He sighed and smiled wider attempting to stretch without waking the sleeping toddlers.

He really _was _getting too old for this sort of thing.

Then again, that was kind of the job description of grandfather.


	26. Maiden's Hunt

**So Elfy and I were swapping headcanons one night-er, well, I was pestering her with headcanons-and I sent her one about Terence enjoying hunting and she one-upped me with EILEEN being a _very _good hunter and Terence finding that "just about the hottest thing ever" and then this happened**

* * *

><p>"Up, lad, we're going hunting."<p>

Terence blinked at the sound of his master's voice in the Squire's Court and looked up from polishing Galatine. "…Now?"

Gawain shook his head, a sneaky smirk lingering on his face. "No, first thing tomorrow. But according to how much you _complain _when we go, I figured you'd need to start getting ready now to be ready tomorrow."

The squire scowled and stood, handing over the sword. "I complain because I happen to _like _hunting, thank you very much."

"Then you ought to be glad we're going."

"I like _hunting, _not playing the part of glorified pack horse. Which is what I have to do when we're not in Avalon or questing or going on our own."

"How do you know we're not going on our own?"

"Because you call me _your grace _when we go on our own, you great tease."

Gawain's smirk grew and he stared into the distance as he sheathed Galatine. "Huh, I do, don't I?"

Terence grunted and started out of the Squire's Court and toward the castle, the knight trailing along behind him. He waited until they were well inside and fewer people hung around before asking, "Well, out with it. Which overconfident stuffed-armor show knight are you hunting with tomorrow?"

"How did you know—"

"Because you only ever spring these things on me after someone says something _incredibly _stupid and you want to teach them a lesson."

He scratched his beard as they walked. "Am I really this predictable?"

"You'd be surprised. Who is it?"

"Sir Col—"

Terence groaned. "That twit with the face the kitchen maids have been writing sonnets to all week?"

"—and Sir Carradoc—"

"Oh, _no, _Milord, he's _awful—" _

"—and the Lady Eileen."

The squire stopped in his tracks. "Eileen's coming? I thought she didn't care for hunting."

Gawain shrugged. "She doesn't. But you'll recall that she'll go if her brother-in-law asks her as a very special favor—"

"Yes, I recall," Terence said with another scowl. Terence had been gifted a falcon their last visit home, and had been eager for the chance to explore the woods with Gawain and test the bird. Unfortunately, he'd been hung up in council affairs the whole time, and Eileen had reluctantly gone with Gawain in his place. He began walking again, backwards up a flight of stairs so he could continue the conversation. "Why did you feel the need to ask this very special favor?"

"Because Col's been touting his 'triumph girls' lately and they've both made a few rather scathing remarks regarding a woman's purpose—"

"This is a Maiden's Knight thing."

"Well, if you want to put it like that, yes, I suppose it is."

"_Fantastic." _Terence turned forward and took the stairs two at a time, shooting ahead of Gawain. The knight raised his eyebrows, but didn't bother to keep Terence's pace.

He didn't catch up until he reached his own chambers, walking in to find his squire packing a bag. "On the bright side, Eileen will be there."

Terence scoffed. "So we can make eyes at each other and hope both our fellows are too thick to notice?"

"Are you angry with me?" Gawain asked, his voice light with amusement.

"No," Terence said, pausing his work long enough to shoot Gawain an exasperated smile. "Just wanting to go hunting. I hate going in groups like this."

"I'll make it up to you."

"You'd better."

"A whole week out of the castle. I'll say I've had a vision of some adventure or other and we'll pay a surprise visit to the Other World. We can just muck about if you like, or we can go to Avalon and hope you don't have any pressing responsibilities to perform. I'll even pack up if you want."

The squire laughed. "Very funny, but I'll do the packing. That's a nice 'make up' for one little hunting trip."

"I'm in a good mood. And I want out of the castle anyway. And I'd like to take Guingalet, so he'll need grooming today and rubbing down when we're done—"

"Hmph. Knew there had to be a catch." Terence bound the straps on the bag. "I suppose I'll go do that now then?"

"Yes, please." Gawain smiled widely as the squire filed out of the chambers, and ducked with a laugh when a wooden cup sailed toward his head.

* * *

><p>Terence was sure they'd never see anything, much less shoot it. Col's horse wasn't suited for forest traveling and nickered fearfully every time a leave twitched around her hooves. Carradoc's horse was quiet, but the main himself was not, shifting in his saddle as they rode, trying to whisper conversations with the others, coughing and clearing his throat when he wasn't talking. Terence trailed behind the company, riding the horse that also bore the gear they'd need if they did manage to bag a kill. He was glad to be in the woods again, but even the most muffled sounds coming from the show knights muted all other sounds in the forest.<p>

Four hours into the hunt, Terence tired of trying to glare holes into the back of his master's head. He trotted his horse around Eileen and Carradoc whispering in front of him and came up alongside Gawain and Col. "Milord, we're not going to find anything."

"I say, that was flip," Carradoc said, looked down his nose at the squire. Terence rolled his eyes, leaning back in the saddle so only his master could see. "Gawain, do you usually allow your squire to be so insolent?"

"You're new to court, aren't you," Eileen asked, and Terence could hear the amusement and disapproval in her voice even if he couldn't see her face.

"We both are," Col answered for him, flashing Eileen a flirtatious grin and—did he just _flutter his eyelashes? _Terence blinked, hoping he'd been seeing things. "And unaware that the customs of Camelot allowed for such beautiful and dainty young ladies of good breeding to attend such a violent thing as a hunt."

Eileen smiled back at him. "I haven't seen any hunting yet."

Terence coughed to hide his laughter, inviting more foul looks from the two younger knights. Carradoc sniffed. He was well-known among the castle servants to have a vile temper and distaste for those he considered lower than himself. "You really ought speak with him," he said, leaning toward Gawain and lowering his voice.

"Oh, I do, every day," Gawain said. "He just doesn't seem to listen. Right cheeky little imp, he is, but dead useful." He winked at Terence from the side, and Terence offered Carradoc his widest, cheekiest grin. "He's right, too. We've been noisy. Haven't you wondered why we haven't seen any animals?"

Col broke off in making sappy faces at Eileen to glare at Carradoc. "It's him, always coughing and trying to talk. You'd think he'd never been on a hunt before."

"Me?" Carradoc growled. "What about the Lady Eileen? I mean no offense, my lady, but a woman on a hunt is clearly a bad omen. You would have had a much more productive day staying in and seeing to your sewing."

Terence fixed his eyes on the horse's mane in front of him. He tried not to become angry on Eileen's account, knowing she could get angry enough for the both of them, and Gawain playing Maiden's Knight wouldn't help. He snuck a sideways glance at the two of them—Eileen's cheeks were turning red, but Gawain still just smiled.

"Look, my squire's a woodsman since birth. What do we say we all lay low and quiet while he checks if there's any game at all to be had here now?"

Carradoc scowled, but Col was back to making simpering faces at Eileen and didn't hear the suggestion. Gawain nodded to Terence, who slid off his horse and off the path in a single motion. He smirked to himself as he picked up the sound of Carradoc's voice in exclamation at his sudden disappearance. Ordinarily he wouldn't be so petty, but something about Carradoc just made him _angry._ He slipped further into the wood, ducking around trees and instinctually avoiding dry leaves and the odd twig.

Soon the muffled sounds of the hunting party faded into annoying background noise and the forest slowly came alive again. Squirrels and rabbits darted through the underbrush to either side of him and songbirds trilled overhead. He saw wolf tracks, a fox den, and a spot where a boar had been rooting near a tree, but nothing to indicate there was anything close by. He doubted they'd see it anyway, as loud as their unwelcome companions were. He sighed slightly, startling a quail that hadn't noticed him into taking the air, and turned to head back to the party.

As he neared the other four, however, he heard the quiet shuffling of a deer off to the west. He set his shoulders, head ducked as cautiously edged in that direction. He only tiptoed far enough to see a glimpse of dun fur moving through green saplings and brown trunks before heading back to the company as fast as he could.

Terence wasn't sure how to appear _with _warning, and he was very aware someone would shout if he just popped up as he usually did. He watched the group from behind a tree for a minute or two, then snuck his way around, walked out of the bushes, and grabbed Guingalet's bridle. The aughiskey's large body and tree cover blocked him from view of the two show knights on Gawain's other side. Guingalet, used to him doing things like this and able to smell the faery on him from a small distance anyway, merely snapped at his fingers and Gawain tensed, but didn't jump. He waited a moment for Eileen, guiding his horse, to get a glimpse of him before smiling and jerking his head to the west with a finger to his lips.

Gawain nodded and turned to the two knights, shushing them with a look and leading them after Terence. Eileen followed on the other side, closer to where the squire remained largely hidden from sight by the black horse at the lead.

Somehow the two unwanted members of the hunting party managed to stay silent long enough for Terence to lead them within sight of the deer through the trees. Gawain inhaled softly as he glimpsed the buck—he would never not be impressed with Terence's skill in the woods. He bent in the saddle and started to pull his own bow from his side, knowing very well he was rubbish with the weapon and would miss by miles. Terence, stuck in his "glorified packhorse" role, was not armed with anything more than a dagger and was now wishing for his bow, even if he wasn't allowed to make the shot as a squire. Carradoc and Col caught sight of the motion before they saw the deer, and immediately started whispering to each other, poking and jabbing and rustling in their saddles in their efforts to reach across to Terence's packhorse where they'd stowed their gear.

But it wasn't any of them that managed to bring the deer down.

The buck pricked its ears at the sound of the loud knights squabbling, and is it looked up an arrow struck the sweet spot in its breast with a dull _thwick_ of a bow no one had even noticed being drawn. It gave a soft grunt as it dropped, then tried to rise again. Terence's jaw dropped and his face flushed as Eileen urged her horse forward even as the deer was falling, replacing the bow in her hand with a hunting knife. She turned Caesar aside at the last minute, casually dropping from the lady's saddle as he moved, caught her footing with barely a slip, stepped forward, and slit the dying buck's throat before it could cause itself more pain. She stood up straight and looked at the company behind her, Col and Carradoc blushing even darker than the gaping Terence, and Gawain smirking at his fellows. She had barely a drop of blood on her.

"What?" she asked sharply as Caesar trotted back to her. She waved her knife at them. "It's not like any of you useless lumps were going to hit him, were you?"

Gawain trotted away from the gobsmacked knights toward his squire. "Close your mouth," he muttered with obvious mirth. Terence's teeth clicked closed. "Well, I think that's all we're likely to bag today. Col, why don't you and Carradoc prepare the buck for field dressing? I'm not sure my squire's up to it just now. Unless you'd like to do the honors yourself, my lady," he said, nodding at Eileen.

She wrinkled her nose in distaste. "I'd just as soon head back, if it's all the same to you. I really don't care much for hunting."

Col spluttered, coming to his senses first. "Then why did you come with us today?"

"So you wouldn't look like complete ninnys, coming back empty-handed. You're free to take credit for the kill if you like, I really don't care," she said offhand, winking at Gawain. The two grew red-faced again, and Gawain bit back a chuckle. They'd die before admitting Eileen bagged the buck, but they'd die before taking the credit and risking Eileen and Gawain telling the whole court the truth as well. They'd be treating the court women with more respect after this. "I'm heading back to the castle for a nice hot bath."

She started to trot off. Terence shook his head, a shiver seemingly going through him, and grabbed at the reigns of his horse. "Per-permission to escort the lady, milord?" he stammered, his face still glowing. If it began raining, he'd likely start steaming. "It's getting dark. Could be trouble on the way."

It was barely after midday. Gawain grinned again, looking at the squire eyeing his wife with a kind of hungry awe. He contemplating keeping Terence with him—and the idiot knights, who probably hadn't the slightest idea how to field dress a deer—but then took pity. "Oh, go on, the both of you," he said, waving a hand. "Just don't let me sleep in tomorrow."


	27. Faery Bread

**Quick little drabble for you all, since I have written a LOT of food and eating lately. Completely on accident. This one's on purpose. **

* * *

><p>"Terence? <em>Terence!"<em>

"Hmmm?" The squire turned to Gawain, then jumped and lifted his shield to block the attack.

The knight grunted. "Shield up, I said, not that you were listening."

Several of the squires watching nearby snickered at Terence's expense. Terence's ears turned red. He blocked the next several blows, struggling to maintain concentration. He was soon zoning out again, a distant look across his face, until the flat of a practice blade came down on his feet. "_OW_!"

"Pay _attention_," Gawain said impatiently. "You're not doing much good if you're a thousand miles away."

He scowled as the laughter grew around him. Gawain frowned at him for a moment, then turned to the crowd. "All right, you lot, pair up. One of you take the shield, the other the sword, and practice blocking and striking, just like we showed you, though I hope you're better at blocking than Terence today. I'll be back shortly to correct stances." He reached for the back of Terence's neck and steered him a good distance away from the group.

"Sorry, Milord," Terence muttered. "Homesick."

Gawain softened as the squire's eye once again took on a far-away look. Eileen, now seven months into her pregnancy, had come down with some sort of out-of-season cold in Orkney. After Lynet expressed concerns about her, she had been moved into Avalon until the baby came. "Lad, I know you want nothing more than to be with your wife now, but-"

"Hmmm? Oh, right. Eileen. Of course. Yes, that's it." A loud rumble from Terence's stomach punctuated that sentence.

"...Terence."

"I know, I know. I _do_ miss Eileen, but at the moment, I just have the most _bizarre_ craving. And I missed lunch."

"What's the craving?"

Terence's eyes nearly rolled back just thinking about it. "Faery bread. You know, those loaves that are so light and fluffy you'd think they'd just float away? The ones that just melt in your mouth?"

Gawain's mouth watered. "The plain ones, or the ones with apple flour?"

"Both. And blackhound steak with the maple rub-ooh, or baked eel and mint-rennot sauce. Mmm, or that roasted vegetable-herb thing with the strange root squash that tasted all bitter and savory, and maybe a glass of that cider Father keeps locked up, with the browned-sugar base-" his stomach growled again and he looked down.

The knight took a deep breath. He hadn't been hungry when he walked out to survey the Squire's Court. "...Get lost," he muttered, jerking his head toward the edge of the city.

Terence cocked his head, grinning hopefully. "You mean it?"

"Go have lunch with your wife. And bring me back dinner." He turned and ran toward the far wall, already seeking a private place to vanish from. "Little imp," Gawain muttered under his breath as he turned back to the squires, trying to ignore the sudden rumbling in his stomach.


	28. Riverbends

**This was inspired by a hurt and comfort askmeme on Tumblr-en-shaedn, aka Dalekwizard, requested Gawain and Terence with "That's not supposed to bend like that" and a monster happened instead of a simple drabble. Thought I'd stick it up here in case there's anyone who isn't following me. Thank you again for the prompt! **

* * *

><p>They were in the Other World for the second time, the first time Terence experienced one of his other duties as a squire, one he hadn't had a chance to think about properly since he first joined up with Gawain. Perhaps it wasn't even something other squires had to worry about. Some knights traveled around with full escorts and trains and more attendants than Arthur himself required; some just went out questing with friends and servants, maybe the odd cook. Some knights brought priests along, just in case, but Gawain always insisted that the knights who did so weren't the kind of knights who'd be getting into enough trouble to need last rites. Perhaps the same knights carted around physicians in their trains.<p>

But they were in the Other World, and unlike their previous crossing through the river of shaughuses, this one had been calm and simple and even a bit dull. Terence was the first to notice the way the wind was blowing from different directions on one side of the river to the other, how the trees were just a bit wider and just a bit taller than they had looked to be before they made the Crossing, how the grass was looked softer and the sky brighter and the horses seemed to hold their heads up higher despite weariness from their travels. He noticed and pointed it out to Gawain, who was immediately torn between wanting to explore their sworn home and wanting to set off in search of Ganscotter's palace and Lorie.

"Can't we do both?" Terence asked, rolling his shoulders and leaning back in the saddle to catch more sunlight. It wasn't that he didn't want to see the Enchanter and his daughter. It was that he knew Ganscotter was his father now, and wasn't sure what to do with that. He considered telling Gawain—he was sure the knight would take his discomfort into consideration when picking a direction to ride—but decided to keep it to himself for now. The time didn't seem right.

Gawain considered the proposal, however, and shrugged his agreement. "It's not like we know where we're going," he admitted. "I suppose if the castle wants to be found, we'll find it. Which way are you feeling right now?" Terence pointed downstream close to the river and off they went.

For a while, it was almost boring. The faery side of the river wasn't that much different than the human side, except it smelled faintly of apples. They rode alongside the water's edge, part in hope that it would connect to Ganscotter's moat, part out of fear they'd lose the crossing back to the World of Men if they wandered too far. Both were new to this sort of thing, and painfully aware of the possible incongruities in time from one world to the next. Neither wanted to return to find Arthur's court disbanded centuries ago.

Then Gawain pulled up on Guingalet's reins and stared quizzically at something hanging from a nearby tree. "Hullo, what's this?" he asked, reaching a hand up and tugging the cloth from the branches.

Terence trotted his horse alongside the big aughiskey. "Are you certain it's a good idea to go grabbing things hanging in faery trees, milord?"

He snatched his fingers away. "…Do you…I don't know…_sense _anything about this place?" Terence gave him a withering look, and the knight blustered. "You've _clearly _got more faery blood than I. And you did so well last time. Shouldn't you just be able to _feel _these things?"

"I don't know," Terence said. "I don't suppose I feel anything. What is it, anyway?"

Gawain reached out and grabbed at the cloth again. It fell almost into his lap with a single yank and he turned it this way and that. "It's a _box _of some kind, wrapped in red cloth."

"Wonder what's inside."

"I'm not stupid enough to open—"

_"MINE." _Something the size of a small bear bounded out of the forest depths, leapt clean over Guingalet's head, snatched the box out of Gawain's hands, and began down the riverbank.

Terence's horse startled at the thing's sudden appearance and whinnied harshly, rearing its head back. "_Hey,"_ Gawain shouted as Terence wrestled with his reins. The knight kicked Guingalet into a full gallop after the creature.

"Milord—" Terence shouted, and sprung his own steed in pursuit when he realized it was hopeless. They raced after the thing, somehow always staying a few leaps and bounds behind. It ran on its legs and one arm—or paw?—the other clutching the red box close to its chest.

Terence, not yet accustomed to chases at a gallop, gave the horse its head and watched Gawain ride on. It was for this reason, and this reason only that he was able to cast his eye on the river up ahead and see something very peculiar. A sharp twist in the waterway ahead, almost a right angle, and a shift in the way the trees stood loomed in front of them. If that wasn't odd enough, the way the bank sloped right before the angle should have made such a thing impossible…Rivers simply weren't supposed to bend like that…

He drew back on the reins, forcing his horse to a reluctant halt. "_MILORD," _he shouted. "Milord, _STOP!" _

The warning came too late. The thing, whatever it was, didn't turn with the river but kept on bounding straight ahead. Gawain galloped after it—and at spot where the river turned, ran headlong into an invisible wall. Guingalet screamed as his front hooves were forced into the mud and he nearly flipped forward entirely. Gawain fell from the saddle as the aughiskey, still screaming and now pawing at air, toppled over on top of him. "Milord!" Terence cried, having already slipped from his own steed. He jogged toward the faery horse climbing to its feet, fearing his master would be trampled as he rose.

He hadn't even made it to Gawain's side when he heard the knight call out in a raspy growl, _"Catch Guingalet!" _He turned without a thought and sprinted toward the run-away horse. He made a jump for the trailing reins and caught them, sliding along the ground and digging his elbows in to slow the run. Guingalet neighed and kicked at him. He avoided hooves and rolled to his feet, still clutching the reins.

Guingalet reared, almost yanking the leather out of Terence's hands and leaving deep welts in his palms. He still hung on, pulling to reach the horse's head. Guingalet tried to run again, and Terence, so much smaller than the great horse, fell to the dirt. He hit a stone buried in the mud and felt his lip split. Guingalet dragged him for a few feet and managed to kick his side once, before Terence managed to stand again. He pulled and pulled until the spooked aughiskey was close enough that he could catch the bridle and drag his head close, whispering calming nothings. He got bitten for his troubles, three times, until he finally managed to pull the horse back under control.

He limped as he gingerly lead the huffing horse back to wear he'd left Gawain, alarm leaping up and catching him by the throat as he saw the knight hadn't moved since he'd left. "Gawain!" he said, roping Guingalet's reins over a low hanging tree branch so the beast couldn't run off again and running toward his master as fast as he could manage.

Gawain groaned when he heard Terence's voice. "I was hoping it would take you longer to catch him," he said as the squire approached. "I'm not ready to move yet." He blinked when Terence's face drifted into view. "…Well. Did you _catch _Guingalet or try to wrestle him?"

"Your horse is _evil," _he insisted, swallowing his panic. If Gawain could crack stupid jokes, he wasn't as badly hurt as all that. "What's wrong?"

"My evil horse _fell _on me, that's what's wrong," he insisted. He started to sit up, then groaned and fell back to the ground. "What did we hit?"

"I don't know. Your—" he swallowed heavily, going a bit green as his focused on Gawain's left arm. "Your shoulder's all—funny."

Gawain took a deep breath through his nose and held it, his nostrils flaring. He was pale, and the worry returned. "…It's dislocated, at least. I think that arm might be broken, too."

"Dislocated?"

"Yeah. Help me up, lad." Terence grabbed Gawain's right arm and levered him up with a groan. The knight's back audibly popped and he groaned again, in relief this time. "Oooh, glad that went in without any fuss. I was afraid for a moment it was serious."

Terence's eyebrows went up. "…Are you sure moving you is a good idea, milord? I don't know much about medicine—"

"You can call me Gawain while we're alone, you know. And I know, I've been meaning to teach y—" He shuddered and closed his eyes, his hand tightening around Terence's arm. After a moment, he released the breath he was holding. "…I suppose now's as good a time as any."

"Milord?"

"You need to put my arm back into place."

Terence's mouth went dry. "Milord, I don't—"

"I know, but I can't do it on my own. You're clever, you'll catch on fine. Just do exactly what I tell you to do." He winced and went paler. "And _quickly, _please. This is rather painful."

"Wh-what do I need to do?"

"That's a good lad. Help me onto my stomach. The squire carefully rolled Gawain over. "Now, grab my arm and put your foot in the middle of my back."

Terence hesitated in the middle of grabbed Gawain's arm. "But if your back's injured—"

"Don't worry, it isn't. Just landed wonky on it. Go ahead, you're doing well." He talked Terence through where to put his foot and where to put the other one and where to hold his arm—although Gawain's speech during those particular directions become stilted and slurred. He told Terence twice what he was to do, the way he was to pull the limb and how long he was to hold it, and made Terence repeat the instructions once.

The squire's hands were shaking as he finally yanked Gawain's shoulder back into its socket. The knight screamed through gritted teeth, bucking beneath Terence's foot, and he nearly dropped the arm in fright at the sound. At last, Gawain's frantic hyperventilation faded into controlled breaths and Terence let go of the arm. Gawain winced and curled in around it, still counting his breaths.

At last, the knight gave a shuddery sigh and opened his eyes completely. "Help me up," he muttered, and Terence helped him sit up and knock some of the dried mud out of his hair and off his clothes. "You did well, lad," he said softly, and Terence smiled in response.

"D'you think it's broken?" he asked when Gawain hesitantly flexed his arm.

"…Nay, maybe a sprain, but it's not so bad." He closed and opened his fist several times, flexed his wrist, moved his elbow, and winced. "Though I probably should be careful in case that shoulder starts swelling. You set it clean, but sometimes they like to swell up anyway. Help me up."

Terence started to kneel and help the knight to his feet, but when Gawain wrapped his good arm around Terence's shoulders, the squire's skin felt like fire and he cried out. Gawain yanked his arm back and took another look, much clearer look at his squire. "Gog's blood, you look _awful, _Terence," he muttered, holding the squire's bloody chin in his hand and tilting his face this way and that. "Hold your arms up."

Terence obeyed with a hard wince as the kick to his side made itself evident. Gawain lifted Terence's tunic and whistled. "Your shoulders and back are shredded in a couple of places and your side here's going to be more bruise than anything else. Hold still, I need to prod at that a bit." He poked at Terence's skin, and the squire nearly bit his tongue trying to hold back a shout. Whatever Gawain was worried about he didn't seem to find, because he grunted and dropped the tunic.

"You'll live," he said, trying and failing to lever himself to his feet with one hand on his knees. "No internal bleeding, just some bad bruising. You'll have to take it easy for a while. I do believe you got the worst of our little adventure."

Terence wrinkled his nose and winced again at the pull on his split lip. "I told you, _evil._"

Gawain chuckled, and the squire stood and offered him a hand up. "How about we head back across the river and find some nice English tavern in which to lick our wounds in peace, hmm? I don't think we're quite ready to explore the great wilds of home yet."


	29. Slice of Life III

**At last! The microfics I collected words on Tumblr for is complete! I'd meant to have this up a few days before, actually, and sorry it's late, even if you didn't know it was late? I don't know. I feel bad for making you guys wait for stuff sometimes. Anyway, thank you all for the words, and I hope you enjoy this third set of slices of life!**

* * *

><p><strong>1. End<strong>

It infuriated Gareth and tickled Gaheris that, rather than taking one of his own brothers for his squire, Gawain had found some random boy with no last name who according to early reports barely knew one end of a horse from the other.

**2. Haggis**

Lynet loved the highlands. She loved the mountains and the gorgeous islands she and her new husband managed, she loved the people and the farmlands, even the weather.

The only thing she hated was the food, and if Gary tried to convince her a sheep's stomach passed as a meal again, she was going to stuff a sheep's bladder in his mouth and leave for Camelot.

**3. Star**

Stargazing became something special Lynet and Luneta did together, one of the few things they could enjoy together without soon being at each other's throats. Those sleepless nights were some of her fondest memories of her mother. When Morgana woke crying silently for the third time in so many days, Luneta took the girl by the hand, took her out to meet the stars. They both cried together.

**4. Lisp**

Gaheris had had a lisp as a child, a fact he'd hoped to keep from Lynet and all the teasing it entailed. That plan fell to pieces when Luneta began speaking and shared his old impediment. (His wife laughed at him, as he knew she would, and he had to tell his daughter at least three times that she'd grow out of it)

**5. Drapes**

Life was hard and money was scarce shortly after the Fall of Camelot, though most bellies were kept from hunger by kindly neighbors. When winter came and an empty stomach was no longer the only threat, Luneta tore down every curtain in her manor and made clothes for all children within five miles.

**6. Trickster**

Robin bounced onto Bifrost with all the restraint of a toddler and somersaulted up to the gates of Asgard. Heimdall looked down at the imp, hiding a smile. "What do you want, Celt? We've already got one trickster, and we haven't room for another."

"Yes, how _is _Loki lately?"

"Standing clear of trouble, without your help. What do you want?"

**7. Fjord**

… "Access to Alfheim, that's all," Robin declared. "I'm here formally. Island business and such. Will you shave me off a piece of bridge, or shall I make my own Gate?"

Heimdall grunted. "Last time I denied you access to anywhere, you carved out a new fjord and I was weeks mopping."

"Sorry. We're all water-based. Comes with the _Island _part_._" He offered Heimdall a charming grin.

**8. Yodel**

… "Oh, go on, then," the god said with a roll of his eyes. He waved his hand, twisting part of Bifrost away from the rest and into Alfheim. "And don't track puddles everywhere you go."

In lieu of a thank you, Robin gave a mocking salute and slid down the bridge, whooping and yodeling as he skidded downward.

**9. Throne**

…He landed exactly where he hoped he would, falling into Freyr's throne room and almost into his lap. "Robin!" the Vanir shouted, jumping to his feet. "What are _you _doing here? How much cleaning will I have to do later?"

Robin chuckled, smoothing his pointed beard. "Don't worry. No messes made. Yet." He drew himself up to full height and cleared his throat, holding up a hand to stop any other interruptions.

**10. Kin**

…"From Ganscotter the Enchanter to Freyr, Lord of Alfheim and our kin in the North, Greetings," Robin began with a bow. "It is my pleasure to inform you that His Grace Lord Terence, Duke of Avalon, High Prince of the Seelie Realm…and so on…and his Lady, Duchess Eileen of Avalon, and so on, are expecting their first child in about five months' time. The Realm is with heir."

**11. Hearth**

…Freyr smiled a toothy grin and clapped his hands at the news. "That's wonderful, Robin. I'm sure you're all very pleased. But…couldn't His Excellency have just sent a missive?"

The imp, who had been prancing toward the giant fireplace to warm his hands after his chilly slide, paused and snapped his fingers. "Oh, he did send a letter," he said, pulling a sealed envelope out of his jacket. "But I stole it from the messenger and thought I'd deliver it in person. More family-like that way."

**12. Smorgasbord**

… "And that's not going to get you into trouble?"

"Who cares?" Robin said with a wink. "I think I deserve to skive off every once in a while. Come and visit old friends. And maybe enjoy a nice meal?"

Freyr sighed. "I'll have a table prepared."

**13. Farce**

Romantic pantomimes and other performances fell into fashion one winter. At the queen's hinting, Dinadan wrote a play—a one-act farcical comedy that ended in the hysterical death of the two romantic leads. The less regal knights howled with laughter, and even the courtly stiffs hid snickers under disgusted snuffling. Guinevere had him thrown out of Camelot for a whole season. Dinadan called it his greatest success.

**14. Necessity**

Terence armed Gawain for battle from his head to his feet, slipping Galatine into its hilt last, and with every strap tied and buckled fastened, he wondered how Arthur could, so long ago, have forgotten anything as important as Kai's sword.

**15. Bubble**

Nimue taught Ariel how to blow soap bubbles one lazy summer afternoon. Merlin taught her how to draw floating globes of water up from the river a few springs later. After the Fall, Piers probably taught her the importance of keeping metal from bubbling too much in the forge, but she was paying more attention to the way the muscles in his arms bunched and flexed as he hammered his work.

**16. Purple**

Guinevere braided her hair up with violet ribbons on the day she was married, and wore them under her habit after Arthur's death.

**17. Hair**

Eileen never thought herself especially pretty—she was too short and had too many freckles—but her red-gold hair was her pride and joy.

**18. Stay**

Every time Terence visited home, someone drew him aside and obliquely asked him to stay. He always refused, and never told Gawain.

**19. Ice**

Lot loved contradictions, opposites, the symmetry of opposing forces. When he met the woman with a smile like fire and eyes like ice, he knew he didn't stand a chance.

**20. Glory**

When Lancelot first came to Camelot, he thought he was fighting for Arthur and the side of the right. It wasn't until he'd buried his sword and lifted an ax that he understood his true motivations.

**21. Truth**

Gawain never forgot the old priest who'd heard his confession at Sir Bercilak's home. The old man's words on false modesty haunted him.

**22. Courage**

Griflet's hands were shaking as he turned back to lead the charge by the sea.

**23. Compassion**

Morgan wasn't the sweetest of individuals, but there was something in a child's voice that undid her every time. Children would be her downfall.

**24. Honor**

Ywain was so _tortured_ in his attempts to stay righteous after breaking his word to Laudine. Gawain felt for him, poor lad. He'd learned his shame at a stone, as Gawain had from an ax edge.

**25. Scar**

When Kai and Arthur were very young, Kai stole daggers from Ector's armory and the two of them had played at being knights. The smaller, younger Arthur bested Kai, who threw his weapon at his brother and cut a deep gash in his left arm. The scar was still visible when Arthur donned shorter sleeves—every time Kai saw it, he blushed and Arthur grinned.

**26. Owl**

Merlin liked picking on people. When he was bored, he'd do some scrying into Camelot. He ordered a snake under Terence's bed, sent a raven to chase Guinevere's handmaidens, and enchanted a tree outside the castle to drop every leaf at once on Kai's head. But he also sent an huge snowy owl into Arthur's personal mews with an apple blossom tied to its talons, letting the king know he wasn't forgotten.

**27. Battle**

Making Luneta eat her vegetables was the most fearsome war Gaheris ever waged.

**28. Systematic**

Mornings in Gawain's chambers took on a routine in just a matter of weeks of arriving in Camelot, and falling back into the rhythm was instantaneous no matter how many weeks or months or years they were away from court. Gawain called it muscle memory in front of guests and coming home in front of Terence.

**29. Ford**

Gawain quickly began using Gates as shortcuts to get from Camelot to Orkney without going through the hassle of _actual travel. _Pop into Avalon from the moat and out in Scotland in no time, as long as Ganscotter didn't notice. Ganscotter did notice, though no amount of sharp scolding and traffic lectures or even stolen weeks could deter his son-in-law.

**30. Beautiful**

Nimue once brought spring to a section of the Seelie Realm that had been stricken by a fight between frost sprites. It was the loveliest bit of magic Merlin had ever seen. It was the moment he fell in love.

**31. Postulate**

The continental knights never did learn to get along with Arthur's inner court. Parsifal said it was because their fundamental beliefs on knighthood were too different. Tor insisted it was because they were all a bunch of dandies afraid to get their armor bloody.

**32. Bequeath**

Trevisant left the snare behind the door to the young man who held his hand as he died. He was proud of himself for managing to get the words out before it was too late. He didn't know who the man was, and he didn't know what the ragged old broken snare was for, but they both seemed important. Important things belonged together.

**33. Audacious**

Some knights thought Terence was an impudent whelp who had thoughts high above his own station. Some squires despised that he was never knighted and kept occupying a serving space that could have rightly belonged to three others by now. Both parties _hated _him furiously.

**34. Indecorous**

Some condescending, fatherly lord once pulled Sarah aside at Camelot and gently chastised her for her unladylike attitude. She smiled sweetly at him before drawing his own dagger on him and literally handing him his silly hat, with a nice clean whole where the feather used to be.

**35. Quench**

Piers knew very well Ariel didn't listen to him while he was explaining smithing technique, even if she did ask about things. He wasn't sure why she came in in the first place, or why she liked watching him work. But she was quiet, for once, and she made sure any water in the forge was always the right temperature, and he was glad for the company when his father was out.

**36. Sinister**

The prospect of facing Morgause didn't seem nearly as frightening after meeting true evil in the form of Hecate.

**37. Cream**

There were few pleasures Guinglain counted greater than a warm afternoon, a visit from a friend, and the taste of fresh cream butter on warm bread.

**38. Useless**

Dinadan was called useless by many, but not by any who had seen him end fights before they'd begun.

**39. Insecure**

Gawain had to laugh at how uncomfortable Terence acted the first time he formally donned his crown. He would have looked every inch the prince he was if he would have just stopped bringing his hand up to touch the antlers on his brow before looking around for someone with more authority than him.

**40. Theology**

Arthur wasn't much for showing off his religion and barely tolerated the more theological scholars' visits, but Guinevere knew well the strength of his faith.

**41. Crazy**

Rhience and Luneta kept Lass after Ywain died. Neighbors called them mad for keeping the beast that close to their newly adopted young daughter. Luneta sniffed and told them all lionesses made _excellent _nursemaids.

**42. Boots**

In his life, Terence polished more boots than he ever wore.

**43. Oracle**

Luneta was occasionally called a prophetess or seer of some kind for her inner ear. She wondered if her mother ever did anything with her own strong inner eye.

**44. Moor**

Palomides showed Dinadan the desert, and Dinadan showed Palomides the fen. Neither was particularly impressed.

**45. Snapdragons**

When Nimue said she wanted a bouquet of snapdragons on the table, and Merlin took her literally. After that, she grew more careful with her wording when he was feeling playful.

**46. Jump**

"When _what_ happened?"

Kai jumped at the sudden voice, swore, turned around, and threw his goblet at the newcomer before he even realized what he was doing. Gawain roared with laughter as Terence ducked, a singularly offended look on his face while the remnants of Kai's wine sailed over his head.

"_Stop _sneaking up on people," the seneschal growled, clutching at his pounding heart.

**47. Cross**

Ganscotter's anger was not easily stirred. On the rare occasion it was, the palace became rather empty rather quickly.

**48. Crown**

Parsifal was a king, but he refused to wear a crown. A circlet, perhaps; a garland of flowers his wife braided together, of course. But crowns belonged on more regal heads than his.

**49. Quail**

A resplendent banquet of roast quails was the centerpiece of the feast Arthur had thrown for his inner court on a whim one fall. He was feeling generous and sentimental towards his favorite knights and courtiers and wished to celebrate the dying year at their side.

The king did not anticipate, however, the inner children in his inner court, flushed into the open by falling leaves and chilly rivers.

**50. Muffin**

…It started with Kai and Bedivere, and really he shouldn't be surprised. The two have been playful for the last week, Bedievere leaving a rotting fish in Kai's chambers and Kai retaliating some fast duty reassignment. Now Kai said something gruff and dour, and swiped a corn muffin from Bedievere's plate. Bedievere gave him withering look and attempted to snatch it back, to no avail. Instead, he reached for a quail wing Kai had been saving.

**51. Cheese**

…Arthur frowned at the two squabbling friends, not noticing Tor snickering at them from the other side of the table. In his chuckling, he almost didn't notice Dinadan—from two seats down, no less—sneaking his own knife towards Tor's plate, aiming at a piece of cheese as he'd run out of his own and was too lazy to call a page. Dinadan was retracting his knife when Tor caught him and protested the stolen bite, knocking over the wineglass of Gawain sitting between them.

**52. Apple**

…Gawain had ignored vegetable courses in favor of several apple-based things, and had been sneaking them to Squire Terence when he topped off Gawain's glass and tossing apple slices over under his arm for the peaked-looking squire to eat. It had been going on all dinner, according to the smug look Terence was shooting a disgruntled Plogrun, Arthur saw as the commotion from the three knights drew his attention away from his ridiculous foster brother.

**53. Crystal**

…Gawain was more alarmed by the loss of a good wine than the possible breaking of the kitchen's finest crystal glasses, judging by the harsh words he exchanged with Tor and Dinadan at the spill. Terence muttered something to them as he and Plogrun blotted the mess that made Dinadan and Tor laugh and Gawain grumble, flicking a few drops of wine into his squire's hair. Arthur cast them a disapproving look.

**54. Thighs**

…Parsifal, seated on Bedivere's other side, took the distraction as an opportunity to swap his plate for Bedivere's with a wink at Guinevere, trying her hardest to maintain regality. Bedivere looked down from Gawain and Tor at his plate and growled when he saw nothing but a half-eaten quail thigh. He picked up the bones and tossed them at Kai, positive he was the guilty party.

**55. Chest**

…The thigh bounced off Kai's chest and that was the end of all semblance of civility from the seneschal. Bedivere looked down at his friend's plate, then at Parsifal's, and started to apologize profusely to Kai while righting the switch. Kai would hear none of it.

**56. Hit**

…Arthur turned away from Gawain's side of the table, just missing Dinadan sticking his tongue out at Tor and Plogrun snatching the apple slice meant for Terence from Gawain's hand. Instead he focused on his brother, who had grabbed the remnants of Arthur's own quail and thrown them toward Bedievere. The meat pitched over Bedivere and Parsifals and hit the innocent Lancelot on the top of his head.

**57. Food Fight**

…As Lancelot struck back with a gravy-sodden piece of bread at Kai, Terence shoved Plogrun for stealing his treats. Plogrun fell into Tor, who thought Gawain was responsible and lobbed an apple in that direction. He ducked and Terence accidentally hit Dinadan in stopping the fruit from taking out the knight's eye. Dinadan, ever overdramatic, lobbed his full wineglass at them, soaking Tor, Gawain, Terence, and Griflet on Tor's other side. The whole hall descended into chaos.

**58. Cake**

…Arthur gave up trying to control his unruly knights and settled for sitting upright in his chair, attempting to give Guinevere his best "I disapprove of this turn of events" look. The servants wove in and out of food flying across the room to bring out more dishes, and the dessert course only set them off more. All fell ominously silent, however, when a thick slice of cake splattered onto the queen's shoulder.

**59. Pie**

…Arthur winced as Gwen flinched at the chilly frosting against her skin, her imperious expression not changing at all. "…I think the _festivities _have come to an end, now, my dear," he said, looking coldly at his knights, who didn't dare look him in the eye.

The queen sniffed, her hand going behind her husband's head. Before anyone could react, she shoved him face-first into a pie.

**60. Light**

Guingalet, used to Gawain's hefty weight, was at first not sure what to do when situations demanded the willowy squire to climb into his saddle.

**61. Glitter**

Early morning patrols were the worst in winter, according to Dinadan. Not even the sparkling of the snow at dawn was a good enough excuse to be up so _ungodly _early.

**62. Lend**

Kai and Gawain have an agreement—if Gawain falls behind on things he's supposed to do in Orkney, Kai handles the paperwork and gets to borrow the best squire in Camelot for a week or so.

**63. Game**

The one "knightly" act Lancelot allowed himself to _love _when he returned to court were tournaments. Especially ones that ended between him and Gawain at just before noon. That's where the real challenge lay—the rest was just child's play.

**64. Dress**

Lorie took her wedding dress apart. Since she'd never have cause to wear the dress again, it didn't make sense to let so much fabric go to waste. The ridiculous train eventually became nightgowns for her infant daughters, the dress itself cut and refashioned into a wedding gift to Eileen, and the lace around the neckline as a favor for her husband to wear when he beat up all the other knights in tourneys.

**65. Bell**

There was only one bell in Camelot, a heavy, brassy thing hanging in the cathedral steeple. That is, if you didn't count the bells on Griflet's shoes.

**66. Cup**

Connoire was more likely to throw Kai's cups at him than keep them filled. That's what he loved about her.

**67. Immovable**

Ganscotter didn't believe in soul mates, and he would adamantly defend his position to anyone who tried to argue against him. If anything, he believed in fate tugging the right people together at the most opportune time. It didn't mean they were meant to be.

**68. Betwixt**

…This wasn't just because he couldn't choose between his two great loves, either. When Ganscotter was young and his marriage to Marine was arranged, he couldn't have fallen in love with a woman like Evelyn. Likewise, when he met Evelyn, he couldn't have fallen in love with a woman like Marine.

**69. Predict**

…It didn't mean he wouldn't have loved Marine anymore. Had she lived, he would have loved her more than ever. Their time together would have changed and shaped them both, and like trees planted too close, they would have tangled into each other as they grew. It was what they had intended. No one could have predicted Marine's death.

**70. Mourn**

…But as much as he mourned Marine's passing every day, he mourned Evelyn's as well. If Marine hadn't died, he never would have had opportunity to meet his second wife, much less fall in love with her—and perhaps he would even be a diferent sort of man than he was now. And Terence would never have been born, either, and he couldn't imagine life without either one of his children.

**71. Miss**

…He refused to believe he was only destined to love one of the two, that one was somehow better suited to him than the other. It demeaned them, cheated one of them out of a soul mate, and undermined at Ganscotter's capacity for love. He had loved them both while they lived, and after, and he missed them both so much it hurt. That was all that mattered to him.

**72. Sift**

The first time Terence asked for Sophy's apple tart recipe, she refused point-blank to give it to him. The second time, she was annoyed, and refused again. The third time he caught her while sifting powdered sugar onto a full plate of said apple tarts, and she threw a cup of flour at him.

**73. The Local Flavor**

Faeries and apples went hand in hand. They were a dietary staple in Avalon. Terence hadn't minded in the beginning, having no particularly strong feelings for the fruit, but within a year of frequent back-and-forth traveling, he grew to _hate _them.

Sophy's baked apple treats weren't only palatable, they were still _delicious, _even after long trips home. She did something different with them, somehow. He wasn't sure what, but he was determined to find out.

**74. Exquisite**

Morgause surrounded herself with beautiful things, when she could afford a semi-permanent home. She was a queen, after all, and The Enchantress, and she demanded her surroundings be as exquisite and extravagant as befitted her rightful title.

**75. Mollycoddled**

Gawain became embarrassingly clingy when Terence was ill or injured. Every one of their friends—including Eileen—teased both of them mercilessly about it.

**76. Toil**

Everyone who didn't know what Terence did with his time in Camelot was surprised when the duke began fiddling around with the way the staff was organized in Avalon.

**77. Kraken**

In his youth, Parsifal had once sheltered an injured and slightly sentient serpent from a band of hunters in the Other World. As a grown man, he found that serpent again—as an Unseelie-born sea monster over ten times its previous size now guarding part of the border between the Realms at Ganscotter's behest.

**78. Burglar**

So Morgan occasionally stole things such as candlesticks and ledgers and Excalibur. What were siblings for, if not for squabbling and teasing?

(And she gave them all back, anyway. She didn't see what the big deal was.)

**79. Jest**

"You're joking," Gawain said, shaking his head.

"Why would I joke about that?" Terence insisted. "Look, does it really matter all that much?"

"Everyone should know the day of their birth."

**80. Tattletale**

…When Gawain discovers the identity of Terence's father, he pulls Ganscotter aside and informs the Enchanter of Terence's disregard for his birthday. From then on out, Terence was dragged to at least three annual celebrations of himself, growing more ridiculous and grandiose with each passing year.

**81.** **Pitter Patter**

Ganscotter remembered Lorie's small toddler steps as being much softer and childlike than the elephantine galumphing of his granddaughters.

**82. Pop**

Kai didn't care what Arthur said about magic. There was no such thing as faeries.

And he staunchly believed that, until one solo patrol some little green-faced man appeared out of nowhere, grabbed Kai's favorite boots, and disappeared into thin air again with a loud _pop _after babbling something about the fate of the Realm relying on his footwear.

**83. Waterfall**

With every new quest, Tor took to checking every millstream and wet-weather waterfall for…_something. _He was never sure what. He guessed it didn't matter anyway, since he never found it, whatever it was.

**84. Perfidy**

In Morgause's care, Mordred was only ever punished for lying if he got caught.

**85. Castle**

Gawain had ordered some remodeling done to better suit the new state of finances after Orkney stopped being its own country. The castle, while not impressive to begin with, now resembled more of a manor house. Gaheris was nervous about moving Lynet from Castle Perle into the smaller home, until she cuffed him on the ear and said she'd always hated those stuffy halls anyway.

**86. Crushing**

Camelot was stifling. Galahad felt sin and darkness smothering him in the city, forever crushed by the weight of all the impurity around him. The quest for the grail was a godsend, in more ways than one.

**87. Dust**

Sarah often felt too settled when she stayed in one place too long, as though she was a figure on a mantle that no one remembered to dust. When that feeling came, she gathered up her things and set out for another adventure.

**88. Belie**

Lancelot and Guinevere refused to let their sullied past defined them. They plowed through all awkwardness and continued sharing an innocent friendship after Lancelot's return to court. Arthur was pleased despite himself.

**89. Capture**

When Gawain was young, he occasionally feared that his greatest accomplishment would just be catching and taming an aughiskey. He never dreamed it would be his lowest triumph.

**90. Kerfuffle**

Eileen had no idea a child could cause such a fuss before it was even born, until she and Terence made the mistake of publically discussing baby names. Apparently the naming of an heir was more complicated than simply picking something nice.

**91. Snib**

He tried to keep a handle on his wit and tongue, really he did, but sometimes he just forgot himself.

"You should hold your servants in closer check," the stuffy visiting lord said, looking down his nose at Terence, who watched the floor and tried to ignore the burning in his cheeks.

"Or perhaps you should be a more cordial guest," Kai said, his eyes flashing dangerously as he pushed Terence back toward his work.

**92. Dearth**

There was a distinct drop in production in Trebuchet's forge when Piers and Ariel _finally _started formally courting.

**93. String**

It wasn't long after the Fall that Guinglain's humble hermitage began receiving visitors again. Individuals at first, then strings of three and four, then whole families. It was amazing how much hope he could spread with just a smile and a cup of tea.

**94. Hornswoggle**

Gaheris was embarrassed to admit how many times his wife and daughter managed to trick him with some elaborate magical prank. He frequently attempted to get them back. He failed every time.

**95. Rotund**

Lioness grew fat and happy in her old age. No one had the heart—or the courage—to walk her as much as she probably needed.

**96. Stone**

Merlin was quite upset when he heard of the razing of Camelot. He'd put a lot of work into building that city, charming each stone of the castle by hand. You couldn't get that kind of workmanship nowadays.

**97. Parapet**

Morgan liked to sit on the edges of the parapets in Camelot and watch the sunrise. When he knew she was staying the night, Arthur sometimes rose early enough to join her, and brother and sister would sit silently together and greet the new day.

**98. Dancing**

One thing Bridgette and Lottie looked forward to most about their father's visits is waiting for him to teach them the dances of the human courts. Lorie taught them Avalon's usual waltzes, yes, but there was something thrilling about dancing to music unique to a part of their heritage they hadn't had a chance to explore yet.

**99. Labyrinth **

Even with all the laws and magic that helped people find what they were looking for in the Seelie Realm, there were times it was less like a country and more like a giant maze. It took Parsifal a long time to find landmarks that would stay still, and even after he settled in Belrepeire, he made sure to pop into the Realm every once in a while so he remembered where everything was.

**100. Begin**

"Start at the beginning," Palomides said helpfully, glancing over Dinadan's shoulder at the empty parchment.

"It's hard to tell where that is," Dinadan said with a sigh. He paused, then hesitantly picked up his quill.

The moor dropped a hand onto his friend's shoulder. "You're not doing this alone, you know."

"I know." He took a deep breath and touched quill to paper. _In the days of old, when magic flowed through the rivers of England and dragons ran rampant across the land, there was a young boy named Arthur…_


	30. Faery Politics

**OKAY FIRST OF ALL I am really, really sorry that it's been so long. I kind of lost track of time. **

**It's the illustrious Elfpen's birthday on Friday, and this chapter is pretty much an early present. I'm really hoping to have another oneshot up, but in case that doesn't happen, this is it. Gift wrapping not included. **

**Spoilers: None that I can think of. However, this does take place in an AU where Arthur knows everything and everyone knows he knows, and it's all fine. If you want, think of it as a post-Due Knowledge arc fic, although it doesn't have anything to do with Due Knowledge. Enjoy!**

* * *

><p>Arthur waited until Guinevere's hand went limp in his and she began to snore her familiar, gentle, breathy snore. Then he stood and turned. One of the physicians by the door sprang forward with a bow. "Keep an eye on her until I get back," he ordered.<p>

"Yes, sire," the man said with another bow, and the four physicians behind him echoed the words and bowed their heads. Arthur nodded at them and left the room.

He nearly ran into his captain of the guard as he did so, in his attempt to bustle around the hedgewizards hovering outside the room. "I've had the gates closed in case the assassin is still in the city," Alan began. "Several knights are already searching the city. It may not help if we're looking for someone with a magical background, but I brought in the local sorcerers to see if they could help—"

"Thank you, Alan. You are a credit to your profession," Arthur said, smiling and clapping Alan's shoulder. He nodded to the court magicians milling around. "You're all free to look around our room, but let the queen rest. I think she's had enough magic for the time being."

The sorcerers bowed and entered the royal bedchambers, already muttering spells. Arthur turned again and headed down the hall. "Sire," Alan called, jogging to catch up with the brisk pace the king set. "I'd rather you keep someone with you until the assassin is deemed no longer a threat."

Arthur sighed. "I won't be in danger now. I'm on my way to speak with the Lady le Fa. From the way she left after administering the antidote, I believe she already has an idea as to the assassin's identity."

That was a lie if there ever was one. Morgan had run from the royal chambers like a kicked dog as soon as Guinevere was out of danger, and it was no coincidence that Squire Terence had been glowering at her the entire time she worked to heal the queen. He had followed her at a discreet difference when she left, with Sir Gawain trailing after them both. If the dukely expression on Terence's face was any indicator, it was _he _who knew who had left poisoned candies in Guinevere's sewing room, and wasn't happy with Morgan's inaction.

"Still," Alan insisted, keeping up with the king for every step. "I would rather not let you travel alone. Sire."

"I'm only going to my nephew's chambers. I'll be fine." Alan squared his shoulders and kept following. The king paused as the footsteps behind him did not fade. He turned his head and smiled woefully at the guard. "Did I say you were a good soldier? My mistake. You're a pest." The corners of Alan's mouth curled up as Arthur continued his walk to Gawain's rooms.

The muffled sound of furious voices funneled into the hallway outside the knight's rooms. Alan raised both eyebrows and eyed Arthur as he stepped up to the door. Arthur shrugged at him. "You can go now, Alan. I'll get Gawain or Squire Terence to take me back when I'm finished speaking with Lady le Fay."

"Are you certain you'll be safe in there?"

"Ha. Shoo." The guard bowed and left. When he'd disappeared around the corner, Arthur pushed open the door and edged his way inside.

Gawain was pouring cider into a wineglass at the smaller table by the fireplace. He looked up as Arthur came in, and when he saw the king, he reached behind him and retrieved another glass from the shelf. The shouting voices were coming from behind the closed door of Gawain's bedroom. "I don't see how…" Arthur caught form Morgan's voices, followed by a very loud "_NOT TO BLAME?"_ from Terence before the shouting became unintelligible again.

"Mummy and Daddy are fighting," Gawain said, filling the second glass with cider as Arthur sat across from him.

"So I noticed before. I'm surprised you're not halfway to Orkney by now." The king waved at Gawain when his glass was half-full. He took the glass by the stem and waved it under his nose, catching hints of apple, honey, and something flowery outside the alcohol. The fight _must _be serious if Gawain was breaking out the Avalonian wassail.

"Why would I be going to Orkney?"

"Hiding, nephew. It's not a secret that you tend to hide when your squire is angry."

Gawain looked insulted. He straightened in his chair and planted his hands on the tabletop. "I do _not,_" he said. He also winced and looked nervously at his bedroom door when Morgan and Terence's voices rose again. Arthur raised an eyebrow and Gawain went rosy. "Well…it would be bad form, leaving while the queen is ill. And the gates are closed, anyway. And Terence is angry at _Morgan, _not me. And…and gog's blood, what do you think it is I'm doing now?" He grabbed his glass and threw back the cider in a single gulp.

Arthur chuckled as Gawain reached for the bottle again. "Hiding," he said, taking a sip from his own glass. _"Why _are they angry at each other?" You'd think Terence would be pleased with Morgan for saving Gwen."

A crash came from the room. Gawain winced again. "I have my suspicions, but you wouldn't like them."

"I think I know them. But it does not make sense to me—"

Gawain's door flew open and Morgan floated down the few steps into the sitting room. "None of it matters anyway, because I healed her," she said to the squire over her shoulder. Her eyes were closed, and only the hard set to her jaw revealed just how angry she was.

Terence stomping down behind her, on the other hand, _looked _furious. "It _does _matter, because you _shouldn't have poisoned her in the first place!" _

Gawain turned as red as his hair and sank onto the table. "Lord, have mercy," he muttered and chugged his second glass.

The king closed his eyes briefly, then cleared his throat. Both faeries turned to him, startled, then shocked. Morgan's shock lasted significantly shorter, however. Her eyes widened before she tossed her head and sat in an armchair by the fire. _Terence's _armchair, to boot, the cheeky wench. "I did no such thing," she insisted. She crossed her legs and folded her hands on her knees, tilting her face up. "All I did was go into my _dear _sister-in-law's sewing room and leave a box of sweets that might _possibly _have been tampered with when I was not looking."

Gawain laughed and reached for the bottle of cider again. Terence flashed a look at Arthur, who nodded and took the bottle away. It'd be a waste to down the whole thing in a single night. "Morgan, _why,_" Arthur insisted.

"She wasn't supposed to _eat _them," the enchantress snapped. "I enchanted several of her ladies-in-waiting to tell her specifically _not _to eat them. There was a _note _that said _don't eat these—_maybe not in those exact words. I disguised myself as a crone in the garden this morning and warned her against eating any strange foods."

"But _why._"

She shrugged. "It was a bet."

Terence massaged the bridge of his nose, then walked over and took the cider from Arthur. He took a swig straight from the bottle before locking it in the cupboard. The king frowned and shook his head slightly. "You…poisoned the queen over a bet?"

"She _wasn't _supposed to _eat _anything."

"Did you know anything about this, Terence?"

For a moment, it looked like the duke was going to open the wine cupboard again. "No," he said shortly, carefully avoiding Morgan's gaze. "No, we never explained to you, did we, sire? Morgan is out of my…jurisdiction. As long as she's careful, she has certain…_rights._"

Arthur's eyebrows rose and his chin slowly dropped. "Certain rights including poisoning the queen of England?"

"If she's careful…yes," he admitted through gritted teeth, now avoiding looking at Arthur.

Morgan made an unladylike grumbling sound deep in her throat. "I didn't _poison _anyone!"

"Morgan, on that point, you have no argument and you _will _be _silent,_" Terence snapped, and his voice was somehow _amplified_ through the room, to the point of _booming,_ without him raising his voice at all. Morgan wilted and stared bitterly at the fire. The knight chuckled into his sleeve at the sound, having long since buried his face into his arms on the table. Arthur tilted his head curiously. He had never before heard what Gawain had called the boy's _duke voice. _

Terence drew a long breath, kneading at the bridge of his nose again. When next he spoke, his voice returned to its usual gentleness. "The queen is safe, right?"

"Sleeping," Arthur said. "Are the hedgewizards currently ripping apart my rooms for the poor servants to clean going to find it free of all magical ensnarement? Are the physicians examining those sweets going to find the poison was not lethal after all?"

"The lethality of the poison I used is under debate," Morgan said, glancing at Terence out of the corner of her eye. "I never _counted _on her actually _eating _them. The bet was supposed to be for a fun trick, a good _game. _I thought five warnings against something would be enough to dissuade even the stupides—" She cut herself off at the look of rising anger on Arthur's face.

He had held his temper in check until this point, knowing Morgan and Terence had held some measure of control over the situation. He hadn't realized just how _much _control Morgan had. Terence spoke again before he could work himself up into a good rage. "For a _faery,_ perhaps, or someone with experience in magic. Guinevere is not, and has none, and she is _not to blame_ for the consequences, even if she was warned." He crossed his arms. "I've heard your _warnings _before, and there is very little _clear_ about them, no matter what you may say."

"So I failed to warn for a purely human mind?"

"You failed to recognize her _humanity. _You've never done well working with those without a scrap of magic in them. Or those with, for that matter."

Morgan stood, smoothing her skirt and turning toward Terence for the first time since leaving Gawain's room. "Honestly, I don't know how you _stand _it."

The duke sighed as she walked across the room, but it was Arthur who watched her leave. "Morgan," he called as she opened the door. She looked at him over her shoulder. "If I were you, I would leave court now, and I wouldn't return for _quite _a long time," he said quietly, and although he couldn't hear it, his voice was booming the way Terence's had just moments before. Gawain was laughing into his arms again, hearing the regality of tone his squire had learned from the king.

"_That,_" Terence said as Morgan blinked, "is a good example of a _proper_ warning."

She scowled at them both before whirling away, leaving the door wide open. The squire rolled his eyes and walked over to shut it after her. "Welcome to the world of faery politics," he said to Arthur, suddenly sounding exhausted.

"I hope it isn't always like that."

Gawain barked a laugh, pulling his head up to slump back in his chair. Terence frowned at him, and the empty wineglass in front of him. "How much cider did you have? It's not that potent."

"I'm not drunk, lad, I'm as nervous as a spooked deer," the knight snorted, shaking his head. "Who broke what in my room? I want to know which of you lost it and threw something, and where it was thrown."

"You'll just have to wonder, then. I'll clean it up before you go to bed."

Arthur stood, finished his quarter-glass of cider in two gulps (which was a shame, it really was good stuff) and left the glass. "Well, gentlemen, now that I know Gwen is fine, I have a bedside to anguish at until my lady awakes. Can you spare Terence for a bit, nephew? I promised Alan I'd have someone walk me back, and I don't trust your legs just now."

Gawain chuckled at the jests, but recognized the concern in the king's voice. "Go on, then," he said, waving toward the door. "Just keep your voices down if you're going to talk state secrets on the way."

Terence shook his head as he opened the door and let Arthur take the lead. When Arthur stopped just outside the rooms, the squire nearly walked into him. "How _do _you stand it?" he asked quietly.

He shrugged in response, then offered up a sad, crooked smile when he realized that wouldn't be enough. "Don't tell anyone else. Sometimes—almost never, really, but that's still sometimes—I ask myself the same question."

* * *

><p><strong>Happy 21st, Elfy! We must enjoy these two months where we're the same age. (also, 21 is much, much better than 20 in my experience, although it does make you pretty old)<strong>


	31. The White Hart

Eileen twitched and groaned at the pecking sound on her window, rolling over to face away from it. The pecking grew more persistent as she tried to ignore it. She could hear a hissing voice now if she stopped the bedclothes from rustling. The noise was too quiet to disturb her, but just loud enough to make sleeping impossible. At last she groaned again and sat up, wiping her eyes. She climbed out of bed and over to the window, opening the latch to allow her husband to swing into the room.

He straightened and brushed invisible dirt off his tunic. "For a minute there I thought you weren't going to let me in."

She groaned at him, her eyes still half-closed, and started to stagger back into bed. He caught her wrist. She half-groaned, half-sighed, rolling her head toward him. "Terence, it's the middle of the night," she said sleepily.

"Technically it's early in the morning," he replied, squeezing her hand. "I couldn't give you your birthday present the day _before _your birthday, could I?"

She groaned again, leaning her head back exasperatedly. "_That's _what you wanted to wake me up for?"

"Yup."

"I'm going to _kill _you." He chuckled and leaned forward to kiss her cheek. She reached up and pushed his face away, then frowned. "…You're not dressed for bed."

"Hmmm, I'm not, am I?" he said, grinning. He fidgeted with his cloak, and she dimly saw a dagger and a small bag strapped to his belt.

She groaned one last time and threw herself out of his grip and onto her bed. He laughed again, further stirring up her irritation against him. When he touched her shoulder she threw her pillow at him. He caught it and tossed it on the ground, then went to her wardrobe. She sighed when she heard the wardrobe door swinging open. "Don't touch anything. I'm not getting dressed. You're getting _un_dressed."

"_Well, _if you want to go _that _route,_" _Terence said, and she could practically _hear _him cocking that ridiculous eyebrow at her.

"Oh, shut _up._" She rolled onto her back and glared at him upside-down. "You know what I mean. Presents can wait for tomorrow."

"It _is _tomorrow. Morning, remember?"

"Terence, I want to _sleep._"

He pulled a plain but warm riding dress out of her wardrobe. "And sleep you will. But I have to give you your present first. You'll _love it, _I _promise,_" he added when she pouted at him. He tossed the dress onto the bed.

She glared at it. It was one of her favorites, but that didn't mean she wanted to wear it just then. "Terence."

"Eileen," he said, imitating her tone. She scowled; she _hated _it when he did that. "Come on, dear. You can't go out in your nightgown. You'll catch cold."

"Is that all you're concerned about with me going out in the middle of the night, with a _squire,_ in my _nightgown? _That I'll catch cold?" But she sat up and grabbed the dress anyway, as much as she wanted nothing more than to roll over and drift off.

He made a face at her before turning around so she could dress privately. Eileen had no _idea _why—they were married, after all, and he'd seen her in every state of dress imaginable. He did that every once in a while, though, dropping into a disgusting amount of chivalry, usually after an extended period of time without talking to anyone but Gawain. "I've called in some favors," he said as she dressed. "There are no guards in the hallways and I'm sneaking you out of the castle. No one will see us."

She slipped the gown over her head, pulling her red-gold hair out of the neckline and fiddling the skirt. "Why are we leaving the castle? Lace me up in the back?"

He was grinning like a little boy when he spun around and moved toward her. "Because your present is in the woods, of course," he said, turning her by the shoulders and deftly tying up the back of the dress.

"Are you sure I'm going to like it," she said, frowning and reaching for a ribbon from her nightstand. "I'm losing sleep over this present _and _going outside at night. Here, braid my hair while you're back there."

Terence took the ribbon and, unseen to her, tossed it over his shoulder. "You'll love it. You really will."

"I don't feel you braiding anything."

"It's just me seeing you, you don't need to put it up."

"Hmmm, just because _you _like my hair down."

He bent and buried his face in the sleep-strewn locks down her back. "It makes you look like a wild thing," he murmured into the back of her neck.

She huffed and stepped away, nearly making him lose his balance and fall over. She laughed at the sight of him grabbing at the bedpost to stop from falling. Picking up the ribbon, she tied her hair back from her face, but left it loose, and slid into her boots. "Well? Come on, then. What's my present?" she asked as she fastened the cloak he handed her around her neck and shoulders.

Terence took her hand and pulled her toward the door. "You'll have to see," he said. "It's more of an experience than a _gift._"

She rolled her eyes and let him lead her out of her room. True to his word, there wasn't a sign of the usual guard at the corner of the hall, nor was there anyone in sight on the way to the side door out of the castle that only the kitchen staff and squires used. Odd; at least _one _of the night staff, much less the guards, could be seen padding through the corridors on tip-toe in the middle of the night. "How many favors did you call?" she hissed as they left the courtyard.

He shook his head and put a finger to his lips, and she bit back an angry sigh. She couldn't move _half _as quietly as him, nor as quickly, and he looked like he'd swallowed something sour every time she made a noise. He'd stopped speaking to her as soon as they left the room, but didn't so much as look at her for more than a second or two at a time until they were a good ten minutes' walk away from the town.

"Tere_nce,_" she whined, tugging on his sleeve when he turned toward her. "Are you _sure _this is a good idea? I'm _tired, _and it's _dark._"

"You're not afraid of the dark," he said, lips curling into a tiny smile.

She pouted. "I just don't see what kind of _experience _needed me to sneak out of the castle in the middle of the night—_early morning,_" she corrected through gritted teeth as he held a finger up.

He grinned at her. "I want you to meet someone," he said, taking her hand again and jerking his head toward the woods. "A friend of mine."

Eileen raised an eyebrow, then lit up as comprehension dawned. "Oh—you're going to show me your animal-taming skills like you promised ages ago, is that it?"

"They're not _tame,"_ he muttered, insulted. "And yes, I am."

"_Ugh, _Terence, _why _couldn't we have done this in daylight?"

"Because it would've been harder, and he looks better under moonlight anyway," he insisted, pulling her toward the woods. "Now keep _quiet. _I've never brought anyone to him before and I don't want you to ruin it."

"How could I—"

"_Quieter, _Eileen._" _

"_Domnoddy,_" she hissed and he turned and smirked at her as they entered the woods. It was a full moon out, and good thing, because without a torch or candle it would've been impossible for Eileen to see a thing otherwise. Terence seemed to know exactly where he was going, and manage to walk without snapping a single twig, curse him. She picked up the hem of her dress and edge of her cloak with the hand he wasn't holding to better step over a log. The heavy material kept her warm, but also kept snagging on low branches and shrubs. _He _didn't seem to have the same problem with _his _cloak, curse him again. "What is this friend of yours?"

He glanced back at her. "A deer," he whispered back. "A stag."

"I've seen stags before, love."

"Not like this one," he muttered. "He's got pale fur. I've been steering hunting parties and patrols away from him ever since he was a six-pointer and now he's _huge." _

Eileen rolled her eyes and stumbled over a clump of mud. "Is that _all," _she breathed. He didn't hear her, or didn't care to respond, just continued to drag her along. She yawned and winced at the sound, rising on her toes to reduce the crunch of her footsteps.

They walked for what seemed like _ages_ before Terence brushed aside a bush to reveal a break in the trees. Although moonlight had been spackling down between the canopy of leaves all along, in this round glen it pooled and almost shone against the ring of trees on the outside and the soft pink of tiny flowers dotting the grass. It was a lovely little hollow if she were to tell the truth, but still thought her bed would make a much nicer picture. "_Terence,_" she hissed as he pulled her into the center of the glen.

"_Shhhhhh. _Be patient." He moved in front of her and took both of her hands, smiling at her like a giddy schoolboy. He leaned down to kiss her cheek. "Wait right here. I'll be back."

"_Terence!" _she whispered again as he started to disappear through the trees.

He came back. "What?"

"You're leaving me alone, unarmed, in the middle of the woods, in the middle of the night?"

"…Oh," he said, as though he'd never considered it before. "Right." He returned to her side, drew his dagger, and pressed it into her right hand. "There you go."

"Yes, that'll be a lot of help if a bear comes along."

"Stop complaining, nothing's going to happen," he muttered. He wrinkled his nose and smiled at her, then vanished into the woods. She was warmed more by irritation-bordering-outright-anger more than her cloak for the next few minutes as she stood stock still and silently cursed her husband in every way she knew how. Then the sounds of the forest drifted back as she kept quiet. Owls hooted, twigs snapped, insects began whirring and buzzing, and she thought she heard something huffing nearby. The woods, always so friendly and soft in daylight hours and _never _seeming quite so large and threatening when Terence was at hand, were suddenly filled with danger.

Eileen shuddered, clutching Terence's dagger tighter and drawing in closer to her, glancing up at the night sky through the canopy of leaves as if the moonlight could protect her. The jest of a bear happening upon her felt much more real now that she was alone. She flinched the next time a branch break, and it was all she could do to keep from jumping out of her skin when an owl shrieked overhead. Her breath caught when she heard something in front of her, something large and looming. She held the dagger out in front of her, weakly, one foot inching backwards to stop her knees from trembling. She didn't know what sort of experience Terence was going for, but this wasn't—

Oh.

_Oh. _

The large, looming presence shifted into her little clearing. She noticed the dark, unmistakable outline of her husband's strong shoulders and outstretched hand, first, framed as it was by a silvery, shimmering shock of fur. She looked up past Terence's hand, toward the snuffling nose inches away from it, her breath catching again for an entirely different reason. The buck was _enormous, _the largest red deer she'd ever seen before, his shoulder squaring up with Terence's despite the squire's own not-unimpressive height. His coat was white, a white that almost seemed to glitter in the dim light, and for a brief moment Eileen wondered if the animal wasn't _made _of starlight. The antlers on his head were also huge, and the points—eighteen, nineteen, _twenty, _she counted quickly, and her mouth dropped open in awe. He huffed air out onto Terence's palm, and the two were close enough now that Eileen could hear Terence breathing with the stag, quick but deep breaths barely audible over the hum of life in the rest of the forest. When he saw Eileen, the deer stopped and jerked his massive head up, staring at her with big, dark eyes, almost as if challenging her presence in _his _forest.

But he did not run. For a split second he looked like he wanted to, but Terence reached out his other hand and tenderly brushed it along the side of his neck. The stag huffed again, still watching Eileen, and bent his head back down to Terence's open palm. The squire turned his head toward her, pleased with himself and clearly still in awe of the creature he'd befriended, eyes half-lidded, still breathing in time with the deer, looking more like woodland faery than any other time she had seen him. "Isn't he _wonderful?_" Terence whispered to her with a dazzling grin.

The dagger slipped out of Eileen's limp hand, dropping noiselessly onto the forest floor. "Terence." Her words were little more than a puff of air, barely audible. Her heart pounded in her ribcage as she stared, unable to tear her eyes from the hart.

Terence's grin widened. He turned back to the deer and stepped toward him, wrapping his arms around the great neck and burying his face in his ruff. He muttered something into the deer's fur, then drew back and reached up to stroke his ears. The stag bent his head further, grace in every subtle motion, accepting the petting as if he were a noblewoman's lapdog. His eyes however, still calm but trained on Eileen, gave no indication of _tameness. _"Terence," Eileen mouthed again, shaking her head slightly. The dark of the wood around them, the sounds of life teeming just beyond the shadows, the clearing dotted with tiny flowers opening under the full moon, the giant silver stag watching them silently beneath the stars—tears pricked her eyes.

The squire stepped away and turned his back on the great hart, who did not move. His eyes were glowing as he smiled at Eileen again. He grabbed her hand. "Want to feed him?"

"I—" she blinked, her bottom lip trembling. "I—"

"I know," he said, gently tugging her a step forward. "I felt the same way the first time I saw him like this. Come here." He drew her into a firm embrace, to the side of the deer rather than facing him, her back pressed to his chest. He wrapped his right arm snug about her waist and, with his free hand, reached into the pouch at his side and pulled out a handful of nuts and acorns. He manhandled her left hand open, palm up, and dropped the nuts into it. "Come on," he whispered, his lips brushing her ear. "One tiny step forward—" He moved his foot and she followed, clumsily, still unable to take her eyes from the buck even as Terence placed his left hand under hers so the stag could still smell him, and guided their hands toward the deer's nose.

The deer reached forward, and at the first snuffle of warm breath on her palm, Eileen gasped and reached for his hand at her waist with her free right hand, entwining their fingers when she found his. Her shoulders trembled in awe, and she was dimly aware of the feeling of Terence's silent chuckles deep in his chest pressed to her back. The stag lipped an acorn off her hand, then another, the crunch of teeth just an inch over her skin. His lips tickled her fingers, or perhaps it was the hair on his chin, or perhaps the whole scene, that made Eileen lean her head back against Terence's shoulder and shake with a near-silent giggle. The stag's ears turned toward her anyway, and he grunted quietly as if he disapproved of being laughed at. Eileen's knees went weak.

The stag finished off the nuts and nuzzled their hands as if looking for more. Terence tutted. "You know that's all you get, my friend," he muttered to the stag, releasing Eileen's hand long enough to scratch the stag's nose. He took her hand again and pushed it toward the side of the stag's neck, just under his cheek. She fiddled her fingers through the coarse fur, drinking in the feel of it.

This was apparently too much for the stag, who pulled his head out of reach and indignantly blew onto both of them. Terence chuckled and untangled himself from his hold on Eileen, stepping toward the deer. He reached up and rubbed the deer's snout, then his forehead when the deer inclined his head enough for Terence to reach it. Then he took a step back, huffed, and grunted again, lowering his head and nudging his antlers at Terence as if in challenge. Eileen felt a stab of fear beneath her awe, but Terence snorted and reached out to give the antlers a brief shake. The stag stepped back, then gradually led up to a _full run, _in a tight circle around the clearing, twice. Then, with a last glance at Terence and distrustful look at Eileen, he headed back into the trees. His bright white coat was the only thing that kept him from melting clear into the darkness. Instead, he glimmered and shone for several seconds before blinking out of sight.

Terence, grinning again, turned back to Eileen. "So what did you—mmmphh—"

His last words were swallowed in a furious kiss as Eileen threw herself into his arms, rising up on tiptoe to meet his lips, her fingers fisting the back of his cloak. He closed his eyes—she felt him smiling against her mouth—and kissed her back, holding her tightly, running his hands through the loose tie in her hair and drawing it out, casting the ribbon to the ground.

He pulled back, frustratingly, after that. "So you like it?"

"Terence, that was the most—that was—it—" She fairly _whimpered, _too full of emotion to form words, and pulled his head down for another kiss, deeper and more desperate than the first.

They lost track of how many minutes they stood there, kissing beneath the moonlight, before Terence felt Eileen shiver in his arms and remembered she was not wearing as many layers as he was. "We should, uh," he began, his voice low and husky, gently pushing her away. "We should get you back to the castle, before you catch a cold."

"Mmmm, you're probably right," she answered, suddenly fearful. It was so beautiful, so _perfect _under the night sky, framed by the dark of the woods. She wanted to cling to this moment forever—what if it didn't seem as _magical _when they returned? "Terence, the stag—Can we—could you—may I—"

"Do this again sometime?" he finished with a slight smile. "Maybe. I don't know. I don't want to expose him to too many people, or too often. Could be dangerous for him. But, love, I can promise you you won't forget him." He did that _infuriating _finger wriggle by his temple that she couldn't get him and Gawain to quit using when referring to his abilities as a dreamwalker. "Advantages of _this._ You'll have dreams of your meeting in _vivid _detail, down to the smell of moss and dew-damp fur, I swear. Just _one _night like this would be a poor prese—"

And she was kissing him again. He released her hair to cup her cheek, then flinched at the chill in her skin and stepped away again. "Castle. Warm. Fire. Now," he ordered, turning her bodily toward the direction of Camelot and giving her a little push.

She pouted, but started walking. She paused and barely stopped herself from jumping when, a minute later, he ghosted his way to her side and took her hand in his again. "Happy birthday, love, by the way," he said, smiling at her with a look of such pure _adoration _she ached.

Eileen squeezed his hand and they walked side by side out of the woods.


End file.
